Conclusions to Entropy
by ChequeRoot
Summary: It is said the only true constant is chaos, but sometimes there's a pattern in the madness. You never know how the world looks till you see it from someone else's eyes. An old foe resurfaces, dubious alliances are formed. And sometimes, people die. [A Preston and Antoine tale, featuring Waylon and Monty Burns.]
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:**

This story serves as a sequel to both _Consequences of Fission; Nuclear Decay_ , and _Supercritical Arrangement_. While Waylon Smithers and Montgomery Burns are, as always, at the heart of the matter, much of the focus is on the lives that have been sucked into the gravitational pull of Springfield's two most powerful men. It seems once someone's path crosses theirs, there is no true hope of escape.

Burns is that powerful a man; and Smithers is right beside him.

It also draws elements from the _Snapshots_ mini-series (Chapter 6, if you must know). While I try to design each piece as a stand-alone story, the Reader will benefit most if they are familiar with at least the two main tales. Readers commented that _Supercritical_ seemed to have more than a handful of loose ends. This was completely deliberate, so that I could splice the concluding tale to it.

Honestly, I'd recommend being familiar with both _Consequences_ and _Supercritical_ prior to embarking on this adventure. It's not completely necessary, but take my word as guide: it will make the journey more clear.

As always, thanks for stopping by, thanks for reading; now Enjoy the Show!

~ Muse

* * *

 **Prologue**

 **PLATEAU CITY, NEW YORK**

Preston Tucci stared forlornly at the wooden box on the kitchen table. His housemate, Antoine, sat across from him. Antoine tapped his feet on the floor, a soft but steady rhythm, keeping the heavy silence at bay.

"I know how you feel, Antoine," Preston confessed. "But I simply don't want them in the house right now." He slid the box closer to the center of the table.

Antoine pushed it back towards Preston's side. "Those were a gift from Evita. They're priceless antiques. You can't just get rid of them."

Preston sighed. "I'm not comfortable with them here. I'm not ready for them."

The box in question held two antique pistols, specifically Elgin cutlass pistols from the 1830s. Very few had been made, fewer even had survived the centuries. They'd been a gift Preston had received after he became chief executive of the Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station, brought to him by the wife of his former boss: the widow Evita Dimas. It had been the last time Preston saw her before she moved, returning out west to the home she used to have.

Preston had kept the pistols in their box under the king-sized bed he and Antoine frequently shared. He didn't want them in his own room. Though he'd been making steady progress after "The Incident," the result of counselling and medication, getting shot wasn't something he was keen to remember. Evita's pistols, however unique they might be, weren't something he was comfortable with just yet. They were too much of a reminder.

"I can't," he explained to Antoine, gesturing to the box. "Not yet anyhow."

Antoine tilted his head like a worried puppy. His face wrinkled. "You're still doing okay, right?"

Preston nodded. "Much better; yes. I think though, that getting these out of the house will help."

Antoine shrugged. "Well, technically they are yours, Prep. What are you going to do with them?"

"I'm not sure," Preston admitted.

"Tell ya what," Antoine announced. "I'll ask Waylon if I could send them out to him in Springfield, for safe keeping at Burns Manor. They've got all those artifacts on the wall, a few more pistols here or there will hardly make a difference."

"Do you think he'll mind?" Preston asked.

"I doubt it. Waylon seems to have a pretty good understanding of things, you know." Antoine's feet continued their soft, restless tapping. "Waylon's been through his own stuff. He gets it."

Preston regarded Antoine thoughtfully. "You two talk, don't you."

Antoine shrugged. "Maybe not a lot, but from time to time. I like the guy. He spent a lot of time sitting with me while I was in the hospital. I got to know him." Antoine lifted up the wooden box and gave it a shake. "But this isn't about me or him. It's about you. If you gotta get rid of these things, then it's what you have to do."

Preston took the box from Antoine's hands and set if back on the table. "I don't want to 'get rid' of them. Someday, I want to have them back, honestly. Honestly, want to have them on display over the mantle, but I can't right now. My therapist says I need set realistic goal expectations. Being able to put those up on display (please don't laugh) is a goal I'm working towards."

Antoine reached out a hand and grabbed Preston by the wrist. "Now why on earth would you even think I'd laugh at you about something like that, Preppy? I may be irreverent and immature, but I'm not a complete ass."

Preston put his free hand over Antoine's. "I know, it's just…"

Antoine made a dismissive gesture. "Don't explain. I don't need it. Just do you, and I'll send those pirate guns to Waylon. When you're ready for them, I'll help you hang 'em up. Deal?"

Preston nodded, grateful. "Deal."


	2. Chapter 2

**SPRINGFIELD, NORTH TACOMA**

Waylon Smithers carried the wooden box containing two antique flintlock pistols into a room he and Montgomery Burns referred to as the office. Located on the western side of the manor, it was a large space that took up a substantial section of that wing. In many ways, it mirrored the construction of Burns' lavish office at the nuclear plant: high, arched ceilings, deep carpeting, windows that opened onto a terraced private balcony. The late afternoon sun shown in through the gap in the curtains.

The office was a room that saw little use despite its splendor.

Burns was much more apt to use his private study for business he conducted at home, and Waylon preferred the airy space of his own room upstairs: a room that had once been his father's old bedroom.

Waylon set the box on the massive desk, and glanced about. Several paintings and a handful of medieval weapons hung on the walls. The cutlass pistols would look appropriate on display in here; and if ever Preston wanted them back, it wasn't as if their absence would be strongly felt. He opened the box and regarded the weapons carefully.

They resembled regular flintlock pistols of the era, but with a razor sharp bowie blade attached along the underside of the barrel, and extending several inches past the muzzle. They were in remarkable condition considering their age. Not a speck of rust on the metal, and the wooden stocks looked like they had been freshly oiled.

Figuring out a display was something he'd tackle later, Waylon decided, turning to leave. He didn't bother to close the box. The pistols weren't going anywhere. He'd almost made it to the door when his cell phone rang.

Waylon paused as he looked at the number. It wasn't just out of state, it was out of country. India. He recognized the number from their sister nuclear plant in India, the one Why would anyone be calling at this hour? It was barely six o'clock in the morning near Bangalore.

With a sense of foreboding, he accepted the call.

"Mister Smithers, sir, I'm so glad I reached you," came a breathless and heavily accented voice. "I was worried I wouldn't get you!"

"Abhin, easy. What's the big deal?"

"It's Rhonda," the man panted. "She's off her chain!"

Waylon pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please, please tell me you're speaking metaphorically right now."

"No metaphor or any other 'fore'. She's gone! Her handler went to take her for her morning walk, and found her chain had been hacksawed through. We locked down the plant, searched the entire facility and the surrounding area, but she's gone!"

Waylon leaned against the doorframe. "How hard can it be to find one short, white American woman?"

"You'd be surprised," Abhin replied, defensively.

Waylon groaned. "Great, fine, whatever. Just keep me posted, and for the love of your jobs, don't you dare let productivity slip."

"Understood, sir. Should I alert the authorities?"

"No," Waylon replied. "No. That'll only open a new can of worms. Keep your eyes open, ears to the ground. Let me know if anything comes up, but otherwise, we're just going to carry on with business until whenever she decides to surface."

"I understand," answered Abhin. The line went dead. Waylon pocketed his phone.

Rhonda LeBlanc. There was a name Waylon hadn't heard in a while. Not since he and Burns had trussed her up and shipped her to the India facility for trespassing on their grounds. Rhonda had been an employee at Preston's plant once upon a time, Waylon knew. There'd been some issues between them.

Waylon hadn't even known the full gamut of the battle between those two when he and Burns had found her skulking about the grounds. It wasn't till her unexpected apprehension that Rhonda let slip she was the Senior Vice President at the Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station. That had changed everything. Instead of merely doing apprehending her, he'd had her shipped off with a load of refurbished parts to the India facility. It made sense. He'd started renovating the springfield plant, replacing some parts, repurposing others. Rhonda became just another retrofitted asset. A good use for old parts, he reasoned.

Waylon had to confess he hadn't thought much about Rhonda since. He did let Preston know he'd taken her, something both Preston and Antoine seemed remarkably relieved over.

The rest of the story between Preston and Rhonda was something Waylon had learned over online chats with Antoine. Rhonda had apparently decided to put a target on Preston's back and hound him relentlessly. It made Waylon feel all the better for taking her. He wasn't actively trying to help Preston, but he didn't want the young man's life to be any harder than it already was. Waylon considered himself fondly disposed towards the younger man. Preston had saved his life once.

They might not have been friends, but Waylon had seen Preston's character revealed at the worst time. There was something about Preston he found he could relate to: unassuming, insecure, but with a spark behind his eyes just waiting for the right conditions to ignite. _That was pretty much me twenty years ago_ , Waylon mused.

Either way, he'd tell Antoine about Rhonda, and let Antoine be the bearer of bad news. Or Antoine could keep that information private. Whichever he chose. He knew Preston best.

Waylon decided he'd mull over the best approach, and deal with it later. Like the pistols, it didn't seem something that required immediate action.


	3. Chapter 3

**SOMEWHERE IN INDIA...**

The fair skinned, grey haired woman stood out like a sore thumb in the sea of brown faces and dark hair. She kept her head covered, and moved quickly, eyes straight ahead. She was on a mission, and couldn't risk drawing too much attention to herself. A native of northern New York just south of the Canadian border, she was as out of place in India as a palm tree would've been on the moon.

Rhonda LeBlanc, Senior Vice President and member of the Board of Trustees for the Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station. She refused to think of herself as "former Vice President." As far as she was concerned, this was a temporary inconvenience. She had every intention of reclaiming her old job without issue.

It wasn't as if she'd voluntarily left anyhow.

Driven by sheer willpower, Rhonda made her through India. Perseverance. It had served her well in Plateau City. It did so here as well.

She wasn't a tall woman, hardly breaking five feet in height, but her commanding presence and stout form made up for her lack of stature. Her straight grey hair was cut into a sharp bob that ended just above her shoulders. Her eyes were a slate colour that seemed to catch the light, flickering between warm and cool hues.

Her face was hard, creased from years of determination and nicotine. Her finger tips and teeth had a yellow tinge. There was a certain harsh agelessness to her face, making it impossible to picture her in any other time but the present. She may as well have been chiseled from stone; a sculpture that stepped off its base. It was easy to imagine she'd always looked that way.

The trip had taken her the better part of a week to reach New Delhi. She'd been constantly looking over her shoulder at every stop, afraid she was being followed. Her pace hadn't been rushed, but it had been tireless. Fueled by caffeine and bulldogged tenacity, Rhonda travelled by whatever means she could. If that meant mule, train, bus or foot, so be it. The distance wouldn't cover itself.

Now that she was finally in New Delhi, with the white walls of the American Embassy in sight, she could finally breathe easy. Even Montgomery Burns wouldn't be brave (or stupid) enough to try and intercept her on Embassy grounds.

Rhonda LeBlanc's plan was simple. Rather than tell the authorities the truth of her arrival in India, she had simply contacted the American Embassy and reported her passport stolen. It was a far better method, less obtrusive. They told her what documents and forms she'd need, and gave her the address.

Rhonda picked up her pace. It was remarkably easy to get a replacement passport when one had a clean background. In less than a week, she would be back in the United States, at her home in New York state. From there, her plan was a bit more vague. She knew what she wanted to do, but still hadn't figured out how she'd achieve it.

Rhonda's trip to India had not been voluntary. Technically, it had been a matter of kidnapping. Montgomery Burns and his little toady, Smithers had forcibly come upon her. She'd fought back, but the two men and their half-mad guard dog overpowered her. She'd been handled as roughly as a military prisoner of war, bound in a crate and shipped off across the ocean.

When she'd finally arrived in India, she'd been restrained once again. They'd shackled her around the ankle, and forced out of town, through the jungle, and into the bawn of Burns' nuclear power plant.

For the next several months she'd spent her days working a job that was remarkably similar to her old one: supervising the operations of a nuclear power plant. There was one key difference though. At least back home in New York, at the Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station, she hadn't been chained to a desk. Literally. It had taken her weeks to get her hands on a hacksaw during one of her leashed walks about property. After that, it was only a matter of waiting till everyone had left for the evening. Rhonda sat down, patient, and sawed through the links of her restraints.

From there, she moved quickly through the village, took a ferry across the river and hopped a truck heading to New Delhi. The rest was history.

The Embassy was a gleaming white building, low and square. It was surrounded by a high wall, equally as white as the rest of the building. By each gate, the emblem of the United States of America was proudly displayed. Several guards were posted, and she suspected more were stationed just inside the walls.

She presented her documents to the guard at the gate. He looked over her driver's license, passport application, declaration of loss, and waved her in.

Rhonda LeBlanc was one step closer to home.

* * *

Sleeping on a bed was one of those things most people took for granted. Rhonda decided she'd never be unappreciative again. The so-called "quarters" that she'd been provided under the ceaseless tether of Burns Worldwide Consolidated were little more than a glorified cell with running water. The room she'd been granted, humble as it was, seemed a palace.

Rhonda stretched out on the bed and spread her arms. Nothing would ever compare to this moment again, she decided. But rest was never her forte. After only a moment of repose, the stout yet diminutive woman pushed herself up and went for the courtyard.

Smoking at the Embassy was restricted to outside, and even then only in the designated smoking areas. Rhonda pulled a small and dented tin out of her handbag. She'd picked it up from a street vender. The cigarettes too she'd gotten in her travels, nothing like the mass-produced American cigarettes she knew back home. These were hand-rolled, most of them. Forget the idea of a filter in all but the rarest cases. In fact, the idea of a pack could be forgotten as well. She'd selected a dozen relatively unflattened ones from a barrel in town.

Unlike the smooth American tobacco, these were rough, heady; strong. The first time she'd smoked one she'd coughed, nearly doubled over, eyes watering. It had been like sticking her head over a brush fire and inhaling deeply.

Perhaps a younger person would've given up then, but Rhonda had been smoking too many years. She was too old, the habit too firmly ingrained. Now, breathing the harsh Indian tobacco seemed second nature to her. She eyed the course paper between her fingers, shrugged, and took another drag. Leaning against a tree, Rhonda considered her options.

Rhonda had always been one for order and principle, following the rule clearly outlined in policies and procedures. That extended beyond her iron hand at work, spilling over into her daily life as easily as the smoke poured from her slightly parted lips. Order, to keep chaos at bay, prevent entropy from destroying the world. It had worked so well for decades, then in a scant two years everything had gone sideways, threatening everything she'd spent her life working for. Rhonda viewed herself as one of the last bastions of order in an increasingly mad world.

It would never do to give up now. Her plant and people were depending on her.

That evening, Rhonda used the Embassy's internet and her online account to order a new TorusComm phone, and paid the exorbitant price of next-day delivery. Good old Torus Communications; worldwide connection at the press of a button. Her old one? Lord only knew where it had gotten off too. Lost in the scuffle outside Burns Manor most likely. It was ironic, she thought, that Burns' thugs hadn't bothered to seize her wallet and credit cards. It was as if they didn't even consider such things important; like they figured she'd never have a chance to use them again.

Oh how wrong they were.

It would take a few days for her new passport to arrive. In the meantime, Rhonda had no intention of leaving the Embassy grounds.

* * *

During her time in India, Rhonda had found herself becoming increasingly hostile towards Montgomery Burns and his international conglomerate. It wasn't enough that she'd been illegally trafficked into India. Working at his plant had given her time to think, especially the long hours when she was tucked in to her so-called "quarters" for the night. There, alone with her thoughts, she came down to one conclusion.

When one considered the all factors in the past years, it was not hard to see how this entire mess tied back to Burns.

The independent spent fuel storage site he owned, AlkaliStark, that was where everything had gone down. That newspaper article talking about Burns being kidnapped, and heroically everyone tried to save him… that was a farce, probably written by Burns' stooge, Waylon Smithers. The fact that Burns had let Tad store spent fuel assemblies at his installation put Tad in the line of fire. And somehow Burns' very own grandson had gotten involved, ultimately leading Tad's death.

Perhaps Rhodes, Tad's son might've been the one to fire the fatal shot, but that was hardly consequential in Rhonda's mind. Part of her couldn't even believe Rhodes would've done such a thing, despite his statement at the trial: _I did what a good son does_.

This wasn't about Rhodes. This was about Tad; and Burns.

If Tad hadn't been killed, Preston never would've taken his place running the nuclear plant. Everything, even Preston's position, was the result of Charles Montgomery Burns. As she'd tried to get comfortable on the rough cot in her quarters, her cell, she imagined all the ways she could make Burns pay for what he'd done.

The greatest irony, Rhonda thought, was that Tad had been doing all this to preserve his company and look out for the public. After the terrorist attacks in New York City on September eleventh several years back, he'd been paranoid about the idea of spent fuel assemblies racking and re-racking in his plant's cooling pools. Despite what the Nuclear Regulatory Commission had said, that racking above initial capacity was not merely allowed but also safe, Tad had never approved of it.

 _There are capacity limits for a reason_ , he bellowed, slamming a massive hand on his desk.

 _The Nuclear Regulatory Commission authorized it_ , Rhonda had said, trying to talk him down out of one of his rages.

 _The Nuclear Regulatory Commission is a pompus, overblown government agency that wants to make everything look pretty for the public, and avoid the real issues!_

Rhonda couldn't exactly disagree, but she'd thought he was merely venting at the time. She'd returned to her office to let him cool down in peace. She had no idea he'd even consider other options.

Finding tales of wrongdoing by Burns wouldn't be difficult. Even the spent assemblies had probably been transported illegally.

A global company like Burns Worldwide Consolidated had its fingers in ever so many pies. On the surface, he operated just above the realm of "illegal" activities. She knew his transports of nuclear fuel and his private installation were merely the tip of the iceberg. Why those very acts alone were enough to start an investigation.

Rhonda's problem, she knew, was that she needed proof. It wasn't enough to simply point a finger and scream "j'accuse!" She needed hard evidence. Facts!

Going up and claiming she'd been kidnapped would be one thing, but it would put Burns and his team of lawyers on the defensive. They'd lock everything down. She'd get some paltry restitution for her situation… and never get a second chance to expose the true nature of Burns' business.

This had to be played very carefully.

All she even had for proof of AlkaliStark's existence was a shipping manifest with the destination blacked out. A shipping manifest for cargo that coincided with the weight of several spent fuel assemblies; and a date that lined up with Dimas' murder.

If anyone asked her, point blank: _do you know where AlkaliStark is?_ She would've had to say "no." But she knew it existed. In the digital age, Rhonda knew information was never truly gone. It was buried deeply, perhaps, but existed nonetheless. Rhonda was determined to find it.


	4. Chapter 4

**NEW DEHLI, INDIA**

Her phone arrived the next morning, and Rhonda wasted no time in linking the new device to her old account. She spent the rest of the morning with her eyes glued to the tiny screen, buried in research. Her search started with a simple background investigation into the public information of Burns Worldwide. It was best to start small, figure out which loose strings to tug at. If she was lucky, she'd hit upon the right one, and this entire ball of twine would start to unravel.

But she had to be careful as well. Pull the wrong end, or tug too soon, and all she'd do was tighten the knot.

She ran a basic search for "Montgomery Burns illegal" which lead her through several related links and onto a forum with a chat box idle in the sidelines. She scrolled through a few posts, and was about to log off when a text appeared in the chat box.

"You're looking for illegal activity from BWC?"

A small strong of dots indicated a second message was being typed. "You won't find much here."

Rhonda's spine tensed in apprehension. "How would you know."

The reply was almost instantaneous. "I've already looked. That old buzzard has gotten away with too much, abused people for too long. Wouldn't you agree?"

Rhonda paused. What if this was all some sting by Burns or his company? It was a risk she wasn't willing to take yet. "That's not for me to say," she finally replied. She ignored the chat box and resumed scrolling through posts, the chat box hovering to the side.

"You keep scrolling. You're looking for very specific things. I could help."

"Why should I trust you?"

"Why should you trust anyone? I suppose you probably shouldn't, but believe me when I say I'd give my life to this cause."

"May I ask who you are?"

"Adam Belfry. 'Adam:' for I am the first. 'Belfry' because: a belfry morning monk turns."

Rhonda huffed with annoyance. It sounded like a riddle, something she'd never been a fan of. She opened a second tab. A quick search of the name revealed nothing aside from a handful of bland social media profiles. Everyone wanted to be clever on the internet these days, with fancy names and made up titles. Rhonda felt her hackles rise.

"Alright then, Adam. Why do you want to help? What's in it for you? Why not just take care of everything yourself?"

"I'll be frank with you: I hate the man. I hate what he does and what he represents, the way he uses people them throws them away, ignores the very basics of human rights and decency. Why not do it alone? Do you know how easily he could silence a single individual? There's strength in numbers. The more of us working together, a multi-pronged attack, the easier we expose him for what he is. Even old man Burns can't watch all sides at once."

Rhonda drummed her fingers on the side of her phone before replying. "So you're part of a resistance movement."

"Let's just say I want to see Burns get what he deserves. You sound busy. I'll leave you alone now."

Despite the unchanging number of users, only her, Rhonda had the very real sensation of someone leaving the boards. Once again, she was alone. How had Adam done that, she wondered: kept himself hidden from the chat. She shook her head and resumed reading.

* * *

By the end of the day Rhonda was no closer to finding any concrete evidence of wrongdoing by Burns Worldwide, or even of C. Montgomery Burns himself. She was about to turn her phone off and go to bed when an alert chimed.

Curious, she picked up the phone and unlocked it. A single text message blinked, begging her attention.

"You didn't find anything, did you." It was signed "Adam."

Rhonda let out an audible gasp and clutched her hand over her mouth.

She resisted the urge to hurl the phone across the room.

"How did you get this number?" she typed.

The reply came back almost immediately. "You were using the mobile view of websites. It wasn't hard. I apologize for the intrusion, but you should be careful. Those phrases you were looking up today: very pointed. Very specific."

Rhonda squeezed the phone and looked around, suddenly nervous.

"How do you know this?"

"I keep a dossier on Burns and his schemes. I've been compiling it for years. Trying to build enough evidence against him, get enough people onboard. You won't find what you need on the web. You need inside information for that."

Rhonda's delicate fingers flew over the onscreen keypad.

"I don't need help."

"Yes you do, or you wouldn't be combing the internet where everybody and their cousin can track you."

"How do you know I was looking?"

The reply came quickly. "Web crawlers. I'm always trying to find people who share my goals. I send them out, hoping to connect with other people out there."

"So you're a hacker."

The reply seemed almost annoyed. "I'm a dabbler. Mostly a whistle-blower. Social justice, that sort of stuff." A few minutes ticked by. "You're in India?"

"How did you know that?"

"It shows from your IP address. Are you okay? Do you need help?"

Rhonda didn't give her reply a second thought. "No. I'll be returning to the United States shortly."

"I see."

Rhonda hesitated.

Adam's response came before she could say anything further.

"Here's my email. You can contact me through it. If you're worried about privacy, create a burner account online. I don't want or need your personal account. If you change your mind and want to find what you're looking for, reach out to me there. In the meantime, enjoy your travels. Be safe. I have to go."

With that, the conversation ended. There was no number tied to the text messages. It merely said "unknown." Feeling uncomfortably exposed, Rhonda turned her phone off, put it in the closet out of sight, and finished getting ready for bed.


	5. Chapter 5

**SPRINGFIELD, NORTH TACOMA**

Waylon Smithers sat at his office in Burns Manor, working on a few trivial projects. The sound of gunfire and explosions rattled through the speakers of his laptop. In the distance, a man's voice was casually mentioning something. "Antoine, can you put that through a headset or something?" he asked.

"What? Yeah, sure."

Moments later, the sound of the battle was little more than a dull whisper in the background. "Is that better?" a voice can through his speakers.

"Much," replied Waylon.

He found himself often in lazy conversation with Antoine Radson. Despite living on opposite sides of the country, he found he enjoyed their no-pressure chats through text or occasionally Skype. Waylon Smithers had a small window open in the corner of his desktop, a live feed playing back the scenes from Antoine's webcam.

Antoine was in the basement, his man-cave, playing video games. His laptop rested on the footstool in front of him.

Waylon watched Antoine bob and weave, as if that would really make a difference. They were only half-talking, mostly about Preston, while Waylon sorted through his emails. It seemed like he and Antoine were having some difficulties. Though he was willing to listen, Waylon wanted absolutely nothing that might get him in the middle of it.

A new message arrived. He read it, and paled slightly. Rhonda. Or, more accurately lack thereof. Though it had been more than a week, he'd expected to hear something by now. Some sighting. Instead, she seemed to have vanished. Abhin's email confirmed it. She was well and truly gone.

 _Damn it all_ , Waylon thought. He'd hoped they'd recover her. "Hey, Antoine?"

"Yo."

"Pause that a minute."

He watched as Antoine paused the game then leaned closer to the laptop, setting the controller on the footrest out of sight from the computer. "What's up, Waylon?"

Waylon moved Antoine's window over to the side of his monitor. "Antoine, I'm going to send you over an email I just received. Read it over. I'll wait."

Waylon looked away from his webcam and pretended to be busy, but in truth he was bracing for the storm. Antoine, for all his outward appearance of never taking anything serious was exceedingly protective when it came to Preston. Waylon could relate. He felt similar towards his husband, Monty Burns.

Antoine read slowly, moving his lips as he did. The blue-haired man wasn't dumb, Waylon knew, not be a longshot, but fast reading was not Antoine's strong suit. After several minutes, enough time for Waylon to have read the letter three times over, Antoine raised his head, expression dark.

"You people lost Rhonda?"

Despite the upturned inflection at the end, it was hardly a question. Waylon looked up, trying to put on his most apologetic face. He offered what reassurances he could, explained the situation. The stony look on Antoine's face didn't soften in the slightest. Waylon sighed, and looked away.

"That's right, look sad about it," growled Antoine, cracking his knuckles.

Waylon was suddenly glad for the thousands of miles between them. He looked up. Waylon didn't feel an ounce of remorse; it wasn't his fault Rhonda had escaped. The incidents at AlkaliStark were likewise not his fault.

Antoine was grumbling.

Waylon wasn't in the mood for an attitude from anyone. "Don't be surly," he admonished sharply. "I didn't have to tell you at all."

"Yeah," Antoine relented. "So, should I tell Preston or not?"

"Antoine," he began, trying not to sound exasperated, "that is your decision. Do I think you're in danger? No. Do I think it might be premature to worry Preston? Yes. Would I tell him? No; but I'm not you."

Antoine reached for his controller and leaned back on the couch. "Okay, so this'll be our little secret then," he muttered. "I'm really not okay with this," he added, glancing at Waylon. A few more words crossed between them. Eventually Antoine's attention seemed to drift back to his game. Their chat was at an end. Antoine rubbed his chest, gave Waylon a half-salute, and terminated the call.


	6. Chapter 6

**NEW DELHI, INDIA**

Rhonda LeBlanc's passport arrived in a timely fashion. She wasted no time in getting a next-day flight booked back to Plateau City. Meanwhile, that morning she'd received several more text messages from her mysterious benefactor, Adam.

Some of the messages pointed her to links and online documents that would've gone unnoticed in her specific search. So far, nothing substantial had been revealed. A few failed business ventures here and there, accusations of illegal dumping, and closed-door deals with Cuba and China. It was all quite dry, and honestly nothing that Rhonda hadn't seen before, regarding any international enterprise.

In frustration Rhonda had finally asked: "Why should I trust you? This isn't even useful information."

One short sentence. She read it, and the blood drained from her face.

"I know about AlkaliStark."

"How?" Rhonda asked, after she'd regained her composure.

"I was there." Then: "Those 'supplies' didn't get there on their own. Someone had to be in the trucks. They can't drive themselves."

"So you know…" Rhonda asked.

"More than the newspapers will ever say. Yes. And more even beyond that," Adam replied. "I can help you if you let me."

"What if I don't want your help?"

"Then that's your choice, not mine. Good day." Rhonda could practically hear a door slamming as Adam disconnected from their chat.

The rest of the day went too slowly for Rhonda's liking. She couldn't get on that plane soon enough.

Her first order of business when she returned was to reinstate herself on the Board at the Plateau City nuclear plant, which was hopefully still running. Rhonda had no confidence in weak Preston Tucci as a CEO. The idea of him slowly ruining everything she and Thaddeus Dimas had worked for drove her nearly wild.

It wasn't that she wanted to run the nuclear plant. No, that had been proposed after Dimas's death and she'd declined without hesitation. As far as she saw it, becoming a CEO would actually be a step backwards for her. It was a job that required countless hours of high-profile schmoozing, catering to both the whims of the Board, and appeasing the stockholders. The hours were long, and unless one liked the attention the rewards were few.

In Rhonda's opinion, time spent on ribbon cuttings and public service messages was time that she'd rather apply to getting things done. Let other people prance and strut, she had a nuclear generating station and nearly a thousand loyal employees to care for.

That Preston fellow never even saw it that way. He came back from North Tacoma with the wide-eyed look of a deer caught in the headlights. Time and time again she had protested the idea of putting him anywhere near the position of chief executive officer.

Unfortunately, without a better suggestion, and unwilling to take the job herself, the Board eventually voted Preston to the position. Rhonda regarded it as one of her biggest failings for the company. She'd let her plant down, even if no one else saw it that way.

Well, no matter. Her first objective would be getting her old job back, something that she wasn't concerned about, despite the sudden nature of her departure. Rhonda had been there too long, knew just the right people to appeal to. They'd reinstate her position on the Board. They'd have no choice. Then, it would be only a matter of time before she settled back into her position as Senior Vice President, and Chief Operations Officer.

From there, she could see about throwing a bit in young Tucci's mouth and reining him in the direction she needed him to go.

In the meanwhile, she'd be watching Burns Worldwide with great interest, waiting for just the right moment to pounce. If Adam was truly on the level, then his role in transporting the spent fuel assemblies to Burns' private storage site might be invaluable.

She could understand Adam's reluctance to reveal too much. Rhonda had a hunch Montgomery Burns' rabbit hole went far deeper than the public knew. It wouldn't be a simple matter of reaching in and grabbing him by the ears. She'd be halfway to Wonderland if she wasn't careful. Already she'd wound up halfway across the world.

Tomorrow morning she'd be on the first flight back home.

Home.

For months, she'd been trying not to think of that place, focusing instead on the task at hand: getting free of Burns' goons. Now, it was so close to being a reality that she could almost touch it. Rhonda could almost smell the Hudson from the courtyard of the Embassy. She closed her eyes, took another drag on her cigarette, and leaned her head against the wall. Home. Her own house, her own bed… even her nuclear plant, her second home. Everything was there, waiting. Just a few more hours till tomorrow...

Adam's text came in at ten that night, after Rhonda was already in bed. She rolled over and looked at the phone.

"I've not heard from you in some time. I expected a reply or two at least in my absence. Hopefully I did not offend in my hasty departure."

"I'm fine Adam. Tired though. Forgive me, but I need to get to bed." She put her phone on airplane mode, rolled over, and tried to sleep.

* * *

The New Delhi airport was like so many that Rhonda had seen before, brightly lit and composite-floored. One thing that stood out to her, and only deepened the sense of homesickness were the support pillars along the lower level where her driver had dropped her off.

They were angled marble, the style almost identical to the street level pillars of the New York State Museum in Albany, where she'd first met Tad.

Rhonda stuffed out her last cigarette in a nearby ash tray and shouldered her small duffle bag. It was scarcely larger than a purse, her sole luggage item. The sum total of all her possessions in India. Those she kept close, on her person. A fifteen hour flight, with a hefty price-tag to match. Rhonda didn't care. It was worth it to fly nonstop to New York.

As she sat in the terminal, she realized she still had her phone in airplane mode. She toggled it off. It took only seconds for her phone to update any new communications. There was a ping. A text message from Adam.

Rhonda realized she was actually enjoying them. Not that they talked much, but it beat the long hours where her own thoughts provided her only companionship. Adam was asking why he hadn't heard from her, if something had come up, if she were okay.

"I'm perfectly well," Rhonda replied. "I will be unavailable again for the next fifteen hours. I am taking a transoceanic flight into New York City."

"Were you aware that Burns Worldwide operates a nuclear plant in India?"

How to respond to that? It might've been an innocent question, it might've been bait. Rhonda chose her words carefully. "I am aware. Everything there adheres to the local regulations."

"Burns kept his nose clean there? Too bad. If he were exploiting workers overseas, that would've been something to take note on."

Rhonda rubbed her ankle absentmindedly, the skin still marred from the shackle she'd worn. There wasn't anything she could think of to say back.

"I'm compiling a list," Adam began. "Building it on my computer for you. When it's done, I'll load it onto the server, and you'll be able to get it. It's not ready yet," he added. "Probably a few days. I've been busy. I will try to get in touch with you when you land, if you don't mind."


	7. Chapter 7

**PLATEAU CITY, NEW YORK**

Fifteen hours on a jet is a long time to spend in the air for anyone. Rhonda was able to sleep, but as she deplaned at LaGuardia Airport in New York City she felt utterly exhausted.

It had also been fifteen hours without a cigarette. Forget catching the train, the first thing Rhonda wanted to do was get outside and have a smoke.

She'd forgotten how truly mild American cigarettes seemed by comparison. It was like going from whiskey to a wine cooler. No comparison, really, she thought as she eyed her cigarette pensively. It hardly seemed worth finishing. Regardless, out of habit, she finished it then smoked a second for good measure before catching the train to Plateau City.

A taxi ride later, she stood at her front door. Things were not as she had imagined them. The plants by the stoop had wilted up, lacking for water from their errant owner. The lawn was overgrown, and an orange eye-sore notice from the city was waiting in her mailbox. Rhonda reached in her pockets for her keys, then remembered she didn't have them with her.

For all she knew, they were back in Springfield, or gone. Rhonda stood on her front step and leafed through the mail. Apparently her car was at an impound lot across town. Her keys were probably in it. Or there was the spare set in her bedroom.

Welcome home, she thought sadly as she broke a window in the back door and let herself in.

Of course the electric would be out, she realized after she flipped the switch. Water too. And heat. Rhonda nailed a piece of plywood over the empty pane. The fact that no one had broken in, aside from her, was of little solace at the moment. She walked into the living room. Her orchids? All dead. Everything was cold and dark. She wandered into her bedroom and lay down on the dusty comforter, an arm behind her head.

She reached over to her nightstand and pulled an old photo out of a drawer full of papers. A stout man with distinctly Grecian features stood, his arm around the waist of a dark-haired woman. To their right stood a boy combined from both their features. On the left stood a diminutive blond woman.

Rhonda shook her head as she looked at the photo, one of many taken over the years.

Thaddeus Dimas, his wife Evita, and their son Rhodes. And, of course, Rhonda herself. _Why, Tad? Why not accept the NRC's regulations? Why were you unfaithful to Evita?_ _Why did you have to die?_ The photo yielded no answers, only the smiles from a happier time. Rhonda draped an arm over her face, and closed her eyes. Sleep would not come easily.

* * *

Across town, in a one story ranch at the edge of the pine barrens, someone else was struggling to sleep. Antoine Radson tossed and turned, his mind anywhere but in his bed. It felt strange sleeping alone. There was too much space, and no one to put his arms around.

Earlier that evening, Preston had gone out by himself. Well, not by himself. He'd gone to see an art exhibition with a man he met downtown. It was purely friendly, Preston insisted, merely a shared interest in modern art; something Antoine neither understood nor enjoyed.

Antoine could see Preston's side of it, but it didn't make him feel good. _If you ever find yourself wanting anything with someone else as more than a friend, I expect you to tell me… then I expect you to move out_. _If you don't come home some night, don't come home again. Ever._

Antoine had not drawn a line in the sand. He'd carved it in stone. It was a matter he'd never yield on.

When Preston returned home, Antoine had been sulky and irritable. Preston had decided it best he stay in his own room at the other end of the house. _You need to calm down. We looked at paintings, and then I came home_ , he'd said before shutting the door.

In the back of Antoine's mind he worried, despite Preston's reassurances. The late nights, sleeping in different rooms… it wasn't comfortable for Antoine. He wasn't sure what he felt, but he knew he didn't like it. He hoped this wouldn't become the new normal.

He debated padding down the hall and curling up beside Preston, but the bed in that room was narrow for two people. If Preston wanted space Antoine felt he had to respect that.

A part of him, the part that wanted Preston's focus on him, wondered if now would be a good time to tell Preston about Rhonda's escape. On the flip side, he didn't want Preston to think it was just a ploy for attention.

It might also throw Preston for a complete tailspin. The man had been making slow but steady progress since the fatal incident at AlkaliStark, and was finally starting to act like his old self again. Much as he was glad to see his housemate feeling better, Antoine missed Preston's dependence on him.

 _Maybe he doesn't need me anymore_ , Antoine wondered sadly. _Is it even worth telling him about Rhonda at this point?_

Antoine had no answers for that.

"I think my head's gonna explode," Antoine announced to the empty room.

There was no reply, not that he expected one.


	8. Chapter 8

**PLATEAU CITY, NEW YORK**

Rhonda LeBlanc wasn't sure how long she'd slept, only that her body was still on India's time table, and it was dark outside. She got up, stretched and looked about her unlit house. She'd worry about the electric and retrieving her car later. Right now, she needed to get somewhere there was decent internet access.

The Plateau City Nuclear Generating Station. Her home away from home.

Rhonda changed into a grey pantsuit. She completed the outfit with a coal blazer and light slate scarf. She stuffed her old ID badge into her purse along with her phone and wallet, then headed for the train station.

The ride downtown seemed quicker than she remembered. In almost no time, she was getting off the platform and crossing the street to the main gate. She showed the guard her ID badge, he nodded and waved her in. She waved her badge over the sensor by the front door, and was not particularly surprised to see it still worked. A little gift Thaddeus Dimas, Tad, had added to the security program. As his trusted confident, Rhonda's access to the plant would be difficult if not impossible to restrict.

Rhonda made her way through the familiar corridors, feeling truly at home for the first time. Ah, there it was, her old office at the end of the administrative department: a glass-walled "fish bowl" style office that afforded her a wonderful view of the employee cubicles before it. She unlocked the door, and went in.

Her office had clearly been taken over by someone with no sense of professional style. Rhonda picked up a pink mug with a picture of a kitten on it and rolled her eyes. She glanced at the wall clock, there was still a couple of hours before the morning shift arrived. She planned to be gone by then. At least they hadn't changed the configuration of her computer. The three monitors sat nice and neat across her desk.

Rhonda sat down in the chair and logged into the system.

After she was in, she sent a text message to Adam. "I've got full internet access now."

She was hoping for a reply, but hadn't honestly expected one this early. Much to her satisfaction, a reply chimed back.

"Excellent. I have the files loaded. I'm going to email you over an executable file. All you'll have to do is then FTP into my server, run that file, and retrieve the documents. You won't have to open the file."

"Can't you just email them to me directly?"

"I could," Adam replied, "but I think you'd feel more comfortable being the one to initiate contact. Let's be honest, I'm a complete stranger on the internet. Sending random attachments for you to open? Seriously, you should always take precautions. You don't know who you might be dealing with, Rhonda."

 _Did I tell him my name?_ Rhonda wondered. She couldn't remember, but somewhere along the line she must have.

"That's reasonable," she agreed. She gave Adam her email address, and waited.

Moments later an email arrived. There was no sender, no return address. The subject simply said ".exe as requested." All it contained was IP address, a password, and an attachment. Rhonda downloaded the attachment and saved it to her desktop.

Rhonda was familiar with the term "FTP." File transfer protocol. A method of sharing files between computers. She'd used it before on the in-house system at the plant. It worked the same over the internet. She connected to the IP address, verified the password, then loaded the executable file and hit "run."

Rhonda waited.

Nothing happened. No documents arrived. The text on her screen remained unchanged. She was about to message Adam when her phone chirped. A text message. A long one. Practically a letter.

"I cannot thank you enough, Rhonda," Adam began. "You've done me a great service, and have ensured the swift destruction of the Burns empire. Naturally, I'd thank you in person, but I'm afraid you'll find yourself quite indisposed in the not-too-distant future.

"You see, Rhonda my dear, the reason I know so much about AlkaliStark is because I saw it all. I was there when Rhodes murdered Dimas. I was the one who shot that pale worm, Preston. Of course I was aiming for Smithers, but the little maggot got in my way. A pity he lived through it. I was hoping he'd die for the sin of getting in my way.

"Unfortunately for you, now that you've singlehandedly accessed the prison power grid and shut everything down, including every security system, I'll be on my merry way. I'll finish with Burns what I wanted to do a long time ago.

"Oh, you're probably wondering how I'm sending this: well, it just so happens I grabbed a phone off one of the guards after I stabbed him in the neck. _A belfry morning monk turns._ Franklin Montgomery Burns. I am the Falcon, I am The First, and I will soon be killing the old man. Thank you, so much for your participation in our shared goal. A pity you'll be taking the fall for it, but that can't be helped. Goodbye, Rhonda LeBlanc. By the way, forgive me for frying your phone in the process. Can't have evidence. Tah-tah."

Her phone went dark. It started feeling uncomfortably warm in her hand.

Rhonda stared at her phone for a minute, not comprehending initially. Her phone was suddenly too hot to hold.

With a yelp she threw her phone out onto the balcony behind her office as the lithium battery exploded.

Rhonda screamed a profanity, not caring who heard. She grabbed one of the monitors off the desk and hurled it at the floor where it crashed with a satisfying _smash_. Adam, Franklin, he'd set her up to take the fall. He'd never had any intention of helping her, only himself.

When she said she wanted to destroy Burns, she meant financially, not literally.

 _Perhaps_ , she thought, taking a deep breath, _it's all just a sick joke_. Rhonda sat down before the two remaining monitors and flipped onto the internet.

A quick searched for the Falvelle Prison showed it had already become a top news story. A massive power failure triggering the release of all inmate holding facilities, the power grid and backup generators were offline. News traveled too fast these days.

She slumped down and put her head in her hands. Her chest ached. What could she do? She didn't even have a way to warn Burns; and would be believe her even if she did?

"No," Rhonda muttered, shaking her head. There was at least some time before they traced the program back to her desk. Rhonda pounced on her keyboard, fingers flying a blur. There was only one thing she could do that this point. It might not even work, but she had to try.


	9. Chapter 9

**PLATEAU CITY, NEW YORK**

Antoine Radson had officially given up on the idea of sleep. He got up, dressed, and drove to the plant. He had monthly maintenance to do on the company helicopter today anyhow. Considering he was salary, it made as much sense to get that out of the way early. He'd grab a cup of coffee from the Keurig coffee maker in Preston's office, then head to the hanger.

His head was down, lost in thought. Antoine was barely across the parking lot when a whirlwind of grey nearly collided with him.

"Watch where you're going- Radson! Thank god it's you!" Rhonda grabbed him by the arm. "Come on!" she started dragging him in the direction of the hanger.

Antoine shook his head, utterly perplexed. He allowed himself to be tugged by the sleeve. "Rowdy, what… when did you get here?"

"Last night, and I'm not staying. I've got a charter flight leaving from LaGuardia in less than an hour."

Antoine crammed his knit cap down over his ears. He looked from Rhonda to the main complex than back again. "But I have to work…"

Rhonda took a deep breath and composed herself as the hanger doors slid open.

"Radson, _Antoine_ , I'm going to Springfield. Do you want a repeat of what happened at AlkaliStark?"

"God no!"

"Then move, Radson. I need to get flying."

AlkaliStark. Antoine gave a visible shudder at the memory. He could still smell Preston's blood, feel it drying between his fingertips. He rubbed his hands together briskly, trying to wipe the recollection from his skin.

"Why me?"

"I need a pilot with a valid license. Don't make me add 'stealing a helicopter' to my list of sins."

"I'm not really okay with this. Any of this."

Rhonda gave him a steely look as she slung the last ballast bag under the deck of the passenger seat. She said nothing, but her eyes softened ever so slightly as they met his. "That's fine. But I have a chance to stop this," she said brusquely. "I'm taking it. Are you with me or not?"

Antoine's only reply was a low growl, but he nodded nonetheless.

Rhonda swung herself into the cockpit and grabbed a clipboard from the console. "Then let's go. I have a plane to catch."

In the past decade that he'd worked at the nuclear plant, Rhonda had never given him an unnecessary order yet. There was something in her eyes, so measure of desperation and urgency that he couldn't resist. There were too many questions, he couldn't even get them straight. All he saw was Preston's blood on his hands. And Franklin: his cruel eyes, vicious high-pitched cackle; the tittering laugh of a madman.

Antoine slid the transport dolly under the runners of the AW119 Koala, powering the lift and wheeling the chopper onto the helipad. "What about Preston?" he yelled as he spun the helicopter into position.

"He'll just have to forgive you later," came Rhonda's voice from somewhere out of sight.

Antoine lowered the helicopter, and removed the dolly, stowing it back into the hanger. He hit a switch and the automatic doors because to slide shut. He darted between them and skidded over to the pilot's side of the chopper.

Rhonda was already in the seat, a headset draped around her neck. She'd energized the primary circuits and was already running several pre-flight checks.

"Wait, what are you doing?"

"Saving us some time," Rhonda replied. "I already shifted the ballast to account for weight." She slid into the passenger seat, but didn't relinquish the clipboard. "Get her airborne, and let's go."

"Uh, right! Sure," Antoine agreed.

He wondered how Rhonda knew anything about priming the chopper but he felt now was not the time to ask. There'd be time to sort out what was going on once they were en route. Rhonda was already handing the controls on her side, cycling the rotors to full speed. Antoine threw his headset on and glanced at her.

Rhonda wasn't even looking at him. Everything was at full speed. Antoine raised the helicopter up, banking sharply and angling towards New York City.

As he flew over the parking area he saw Preston's car pulling into the lot. Preston was already out of his car, shielding his eyes, looking at the chopper with an expression of utter bewilderment. Antoine did a single arc, rolling to the right as he did. He raised a hand in a salute, then cut out over the city and river.

"So," he said as he levelled out. "Do you mind telling me what this is all about."

Rhonda looked up, her typically stoic face oddly forlorn. "I've done a terrible thing, Antoine."

Antoine snorted. "Yeah? Which one?" He glanced out of the corner of his eye at her.

"Spare me the attitude, Radson. You don't know the half of it."

Antoine tightened his lips. "Oh, I think you deserve all the attitude I can give you. I mean, I'm taking you to La Guardia, but you haven't exactly told me why. And what do you know about AlkaliStark anyway?"

"I know that it's where Franklin Burns shot Preston. I know that it wasn't a kidnapping gone wrong. It was an assassination. Franklin wasn't aiming for Preston, he was aiming for Burns' assistant. He missed. He was sent to prison. He broke free. Now Franklin's on his way to Springfield to finish the job."

None of this was making sense to Antoine. "How!?" he demanded.

Rhonda looked out the clear plexi-bubble at their feet. "I… I helped."

If there was ever a moment Antoine felt like murdering someone, that was it. Visions of throwing the helicopter into a hover and hurling Rhonda out the cockpit flashed through his mind. He felt the muscles in his jaw knot up. "Why?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"I thought I was getting files transferred over that would expose Burns' company. He needs to be taken down after what happened to Tad." She still couldn't meet Antoine's eyes.

La Guardia airport was rapidly approaching. Antoine requested permission to land, circled while it was approved, then dropped down on the helipad.

"We'll continue this on the jet if you're coming. I hope to god you are," Rhonda added. She pulled her headset off and hung in on the back of her seat. "Move, Radson."

"Why do you need me?"

Rhonda grasped his wrist with her ashen hand. "Because I can't do this alone, and no one will believe me. Burns trusts you. I can't do this without you."

Antoine swore and clapped his hands together. He looked at Rhonda, expression pained.

She met his gaze, and this time didn't look away.

With another growled profanity, Antoine slung himself out of the chopper. "What about her?" he asked, gesturing to the _Little Diva_ as they crossed the tarmac to the executive lot.

"She'll be fine, Antoine, trust me."

A long-range passenger jet was already out and idling. Rhonda flashed her ID and the pilot escorted her aboard. He held up his hand, baring Antoine. "Only passengers beyond this point, sir." Antoine caught a glimpse of the stun gun under the man's jacket.

"How much?" Rhonda asked, reaching for her wallet. "To add him to the list. How much?"

The pilot listed a number. Antoine's eyes widened.

"Good, I'll put it on my card," Rhonda replied.

The pilot stepped aside and let Antoine board.

"That's practically a down payment on a car, Rowdy," Antoine remarked looking about the cabin. Aside from them, it was empty. The pilot and co-pilot had already secured the cockpit.

Rhonda threw herself into a chair. "For what I paid to get this flight, I could've bought a car in full. Between you and I, Radson, I don't think I'll be coming back from this."

"Oh," Antoine replied morosely. He slid into the seat across from her and buckled his seatbelt. He didn't know what to say. Antoine tried to look anywhere but at Rhonda. He picked at a loose thread on the frayed cuff of his canvas jacket. "Gonna tell me what happened?" he asked softly.

Rhonda found herself caught off guard by Antoine's surprisingly gentle tone. She reached into her small travel bag and pulled out a photo. She looked at it, then tucked it back in. "Let's start from the beginning. What do you think you know?"

The thread had fully unraveled. Antoine twisted it around his finger, and drummed his feet on the floor of the cabin. "About?"

She gestured around them. "About all of this."

"Well, you worked for Mister Dimas since forever, and you're pretty much the avatar of the plant. You and I were never friends, but we weren't enemies either. We each did our thing. Then that stuff happened, and you decided to go after Preston when he came back. Then you went to India. Now you're back, and things are all messed up again."

"Succinct as always, Radson."

Rhonda stared at the ceiling. "We've got a few hours before we land in Springfield. Hopefully we get there before Franklin. In the meantime, I'm going to tell you a story, and I'm only going to tell it once, so you'd better pay attention. You think you and Preston were the only ones affected by Tad's death? You have no idea."

Rhonda found herself wishing in vain for a cigarette. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and began.

* * *

 **THEN**

Thaddeus Dimas sat across the table from a young woman in her early 20s, her blond hair cut in a bob that ended just above her shoulders. She wore a modest grey dress suit, and a simple silver necklace. Her grey eyes sparkled with keen intelligence that belied her training as a typist.

Thaddeus Dimas, Tad, was laughing, his paw-like hands resting over his stomach. She'd met the man at a gallery in Albany, and the two had formed an immediate rapport over an argument about a Renoir painting.

He'd explained he was from Yale, then tried to impress her with a made-up story about the artist; a painter he knew nothing about. She had immediately called his bluff, and had been brazen enough to even correct him, pointing to a date in her guide book.

"Miss LeBlanc, I daresay no one's bothered to challenge me like that before. Especially not some typist. You really are quite brazen, aren't you? Look at you, a little slip of a thing, and yet you'll stand up to me. That should anger me, but it's refreshing." He grinned. "I'm coming on board as the executive for an up-and-coming energy project in north Plateau City. A little old nuclear generating station. I could use a secretary with your spunk. What do you say, girl, do we have a deal?"

She gave a tilt of her head, falsely submissive. "Well, Mister Dimas, if you think I'm qualified."

Tad laughed again. "Qualifications can be learned; but character is something you either have or you don't. And you, young lady, have an overabundance of the stuff!"

* * *

 **THEN**

"Congratulations on your anniversary," Evita said, laughing as she poured a glass of champagne.

Tad gave his deep laugh. "My dear, it's only been one year."

Evita winked. "Exactly! Twelve months of progress and momentum," she replied, grabbing a small camera out of her purse. She aimed it at her husband.

"That's really not necessary," Tad said, raising a hand to cover his face."

"Of course it is. Miss LeBlanc, get in there with him."

Rhonda looked up from her place at the side of Tad's office. "Mrs. Dimas, I hardly think…"

"Call me 'Evita,' and I insist. You've been keeping this man on track for the past twelve months That's no easy task. Come over here."

Feeling both honored and suddenly shy, Rhonda slipped in behind her boss's chair and stood. Despite her bashfulness, she straightened her back and put on the proudest expression she could. Tad poured her a glass and raised his champagne, toasting them both as shutter clicked.

* * *

 **THEN**

Thaddeus Dimas grinned as he handed the baby to his personal assistant, Rhonda LeBlanc. "My son! What do you think, girl? A chip off the old block?"

Rhonda took the child gently and held him in her arms. "Little Rhodes, I daresay you look like your mother's son," she cooed, stroking the baby's silky black hair and smirking at Tad. "Are you sure he's yours, Tad? I don't see the resemblance at all." Rhonda was clearly teasing. The boy resembled his father as much if not more than his mother.

Evita Dimas, the boy's mother laughed with maternal pride. "He's got Tad's appetite, that's for sure."

"And just what's that supposed to mean?" Thaddeus Dimas asked, giving his wife a sideways look. Despite his serious expression, his eyes shown with delight. His little family, complete once more.

Rhonda was there for the child's baptism, staring into the child's face as he was pronounced her godson. Tad's bear arms wrapped around his wife, son, and Rhonda as the camera flashed. Rhodes, always the quiet child blinked thoughtfully in the light. He was a quiet yet confident child, Rhonda decided. She could see him growing up to make a good police man, or a philosopher.

* * *

 **THEN**

"We need better transportation," Tad announced over a cup of coffee at the local diner. "I'm thinking of buying a private jet for the company."

Rhonda, Head of Human Resources, laughed. "That's a waste of good money. You don't travel that much, and it's only good for getting from one airport to the other. I'd recommend a helicopter. You could justify the expense better to the Board. Tell them it could be used for short flights between here and Albany or the City. You could even make the argument it would allow for better inspection of the plant and surrounding property." Rhonda held out her hands. "A suggestion, that's all."

Tad poured another packet of sugar into his coffee. He liked it sweet. "Who'd pilot it? If I paid for lessons, would you?"

Rhonda shrugged. "If I have to, then yes. I will."

He leaned back in his chair. "Good. Do some research. You figure out what we need, and I'll figure out how we'll pay for it. Sound like a plan?" He extended his massive hand.

Rhonda took it and shook. "A plan," she agreed.

* * *

 **THEN**

Associate Vice President and personal pilot, Rhonda LeBlanc took the headset off angrily and threw it into the footwell of the cockpit. "Look, you and I both know what you're doing on your so-called 'business trips.' I'll not have any part of it. I have half a mind to call Evita and tell her right now!"

Tad held up his hands. "Rhonda, Rhonda, calm down." He reached for the cell phone in her hand, but she pulled it away from his reach. "Firstly, do you really think that'll help anything? Quite honestly, how do you know she's not already aware of it; that we don't have an open marriage? You don't travel with her, are you so sure she doesn't have her own liaisons in my absence?"

Rhonda hesitated, phone held in one hand.

"Are you willing to put yourself in the middle of a married couple's private relationship based on what you think you know about it? How would that affect your relationship with her, or with Rhodes?" He reached for his phone, gently this time.

Rhonda folded it shut and handed it back to its owner.

"Well, Tad, 'open marriage' or not, all I hear are excuses. I won't be having any part of this. After this trip, I'm done flying. You'll have to find yourself a new pilot. I'm not doing this anymore."

* * *

 **THEN**

Rhonda LeBlanc stared at the application in Tad's hand. "Certified instructor?" she asked, wonderingly. "And he's willing to work for peanuts."

Tad smirked. "He doesn't have much choice. He's fresh out of training school and has a ton of debt. I'm offering him a steady job with a 'reasonable' salary. I could pay him more, but he doesn't have to know that."

Rhonda looked at the photo. A man with blue eyes, blond hair, and a goatee stared up from her palm. "Radson, huh. What is he, Norwegian or something?"

Tad's curled a lip. "I don't care if he's a lowland gorilla so long as he can fly. He's got excellent marks, and no sense of what he's worth. We'll make him think he's something great! He's perfect."

* * *

 **THEN**

Antoine Radson crept into Thaddeus Dimas's office wearing a Hawaiian shirt over a black tee shirt. Vice President Rhonda LeBlanc had been on her way out. She paused, and stepped back into the office, watching, curious.

"What's this?" Dimas asked, gesturing to the bright colored cloth.

Antoine brushed his blond hair out of his face and looked mildly embarrassed. "The guys in the break room told me it's Aloha Shirt Friday."

"Did they now." It wasn't a question.

Antoine nodded. "I can take it off if it's a problem, sir."

Tad looked up and folded his hands in front of him _. Hazing the new guy_ , he thought with a touch of ire. _Well, if they're going to play a joke on him, I shall have the last laugh on them_. "Is that your only shirt like that?" he asked.

The pilot shook his head. "No, sir. I have others. I like 'em."

Tad cracked his knuckles, calloused hands rubbing over each other. "Well, here's the thing, Radson. They're quite right. The thing is, Aloha Shirt Friday is only for management-"

"Oh," Antoine muttered and began unbuttoning his shirt.

"Wait!" Tad interjected. "You didn't let me finish. It's only for management, and for specialized personnel like, say, pilots."

Antoine's eyes lit, a grin slowly spreading across face. "Really, sir?"

Tad nodded. "Absolutely. You've got VIP status around here. Hell, I don't care if you wear a shirt like that every day of the week. Just don't rub it in the other employees' faces, alright? If anyone gives you any grief, let me know and I'll handle them personally."

"For real?"

"Yes, Radson. 'For real.'"

The blond-haired man's delight was positively infectious. He gave a little hop, and a bow in one. "Yes, sir! I'll be sure to do that, sir. Thank you!"

"Any time, now, get on with you. I have some work to attend to."

The young pilot nodded again and backed out, still doing that awkward hop-and-bow. Rhonda watched him go.

"What was that all about?" she asked, perplexed.

"Oh, I got a call from one of the supervisors that he wasn't wearing approved attire, wanted to get to the bottom of it. He's a bit of a lost puppy, rather out of his element around here, but his heart's in the right place." Tad folded his arms behind his head. "Sounds like some of the old salts are trying to have fun at his expense. I figured I'd have some fun at theirs. I don't care if he dyes his hair pink as long as he does his job."

Rhonda rolled her eyes. "Pink would be a bit much, Tad."

"You know what I mean. It's a metaphor. I like that kid. I don't know what it is, but there's something about him that just makes me smile."

"Like a 'puppy?'"

Tad laughed. "Exactly! Like a mascot or something. Let him wear whatever he wants. As long as he can do his job, I don't mind. It'll bug the hell out of those duffers downstairs!"

* * *

 **THEN**

Senior Vice President, Chief of Operations, and Board Member LeBlanc lowered the phone from her ear. Thaddeus Dimas… dead. At least he gave his life trying to play the hero, Rhonda thought sadly. She pulled out a picture from her desk and looked at it. It was a print taken in the early days of their career, more than thirty years ago. Thaddeus Dimas standing behind his desk, Rhonda next to him with a notepad in hand. Evita had taken that picture. She'd been so proud of her husband's CEO career. Such a bright future.

* * *

 **SOMEWHERE 41,000FT OVER THE MIDWEST**

Rhonda finished her story. They sat in silence for some time. Finally, Antoine spoke. "I never knew you flew the _Little Diva_ … or any of the rest of that," he confessed.

"Well now you do," Rhonda LeBlanc replied. "I learned shortly after Preston got back that Dimas hadn't been killed as the result of a kidnapping gone wrong. I found out he was involved in the illegal transport of spent fuel assemblies, and you two were in on it." She pointed a finger at Antoine's chest. "And you knew about it. Both of you. Bad enough Preston was in on it, but you too? He trusted you, Antoine!"

Antoine looked away. "I know. It bothers me. Just because I don't show it doesn't mean I don't care."

"You're preaching to the choir," Rhonda gave a dry laugh.

Antoine busied himself working another thread free. "So, I guess… why did you go after Preston so hard? Why's you sneak onto Burnsie's property?"

Rhonda regarded him neutrally. "Mistakes were made."

"That's not really an answer."

"Fine, Radson. You want the truth? Since there won't be another chapter for me after this – one way or the other I'm going to go away for a long time – I'll be perfectly honest with you: the day Tad died, I lost one of my oldest and dearest friends. I blamed Preston and especially Burns for his death. However rational or irrational it might've been, I wanted to see you _all_ get what I felt you deserved: ruination. But not murder. That's why we're heading to Springfield now: to beat Franklin and stop more senseless deaths if we get there first. Even if Burns won't listen to me, I'm hoping he'll listen to you. Or perhaps I can try to reason with Franklin. There's been enough tragedy, and I'm tired of it. I want an end to it all. "

There was an oddly fatalistic tone to her voice, something that made Antoine's stomach knot up.

"You can't reason with Franklin."

She gave him a joyless grimace. "What can I lose by trying? Falvelle Prison for the Criminally Brilliant and Insane is about six hours from of Springfield, just across the border in South Tacoma. Our flight takes six hours. I'm hoping we make it in time."

"What if we're too late?" he asked softly.

"Then their deaths will be on my head, and I'll have to accept the consequences."


	10. Chapter 10

**SPRINGFIELD, NORTH TACOMA**

Antoine whipped the rental car down Mammon Lane. He glanced at the clock in the dash. He had no idea how Franklin would be traveling, but if he remembered anything about the teen, the boy was determined, and a genius.

As he careened towards the eastern gates of Montgomery Burns' estate he slowed. The gates were wide open. Something felt wrong. "We're too late," he moaned. Images of Waylon and Monty soaked in their own blood filled his mind.

"There might still be time," Rhonda snapped, shoving his leg down on the gas.

Antoine skidded to a halt in front of the wide steps and bounded up them, two at a time. Rhonda, for all her shorter limbs and stout figure was right at his heels. At the top of the steps, Antoine skidded to a halt. A Doberman pinscher lay at the top of the stairs, panting weakly. It looked like there had been a nasty fight, and the dog had gotten the worst of it.

Antoine could see a trail of blood leading down the main entry way, towards the west wing.

"Please," Rhonda said, putting a hand on Antoine's chest. "Stay here. If you hear gunshots, or things get out of hand, run. Go to the police. Get out of here."

Antoine nodded mutely. _Easier said than done,_ he thought as she left his side.

The dog managed a weak growl at her as Rhonda stepped over it, and disappeared into the cavernous mansion.

* * *

Franklin Montgomery Burns was not overly impressed with the security at Burns Manor. He'd infiltrated the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant, he'd infiltrated AlkaliStark. Compared the those, the manor was hardly even a challenge. Originally, he'd planned to merely lie in ambush, but upon finding both Waylon Smithers and his grandfather at home, everything changed in his favor.

Franklin, rogue son of Larry Burns, drove the two men back from the entry way, and down to an office at the end of the hall. He knew of the guard dogs. He shot at least one before hurling Burns into the office. It wasn't hard. He'd always been a strong boy, and his time in the prison exercise yards had converted his once fat frame to hard muscle.

His face had changed too. Leaner, harder. His voice had deepened, though in moments of excitement, even he had to admit he was more shrill than he'd like. What he wouldn't do for a silky tone like his cellmate. Ah well, that wasn't important. One frustration at a time. Even in his vanity, Franklin had priorities.

Still, it was hard not to be proud of himself, Franklin thought as he strutted and preened, admiring his reflection in the mans' terrified eyes. His grandfather's toady was playing "human shield," something Franklin thought infinitely amusing. As if a second body would stop the bullet of a .45 caliber Glock. And with thirteen rounds in the clip, well, that was more than enough for both of them; even counting the few he'd unloaded at the dogs.

Franklin liked the feel of the gun in his hand. It was heavy, almost alive. He never moved it off Waylon Smither's chest as he spoke. Feeling overly proud of himself, he couldn't help but take a moment to gloat. In his own words to his captives, he'd earned it. It was an honor he'd bestow upon them: letting them know how he'd escape… how they'd die.

"And really," he continued, "it was quite easy. I am a genius, and she was not." He shrugged with his free hand.

"I got this off one of the guards, the same one I got that phone from. Obviously, I had to leave the phone behind. Too easy to trace. It's on a freight train heading south. Opposite of the high-speed freighter I took to get here."

He nodded in the direction of Waylon. "Now, are you going to move out of the way, or am I going to have to shoot through you to get to him? Because, honestly, I don't care. I'll burn this place to the ground when I'm done. Burns Manor, oh the irony!" He gave a tittering laugh. A drop of saliva leaked from the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away impatiently and leered at Burns. "Tick tock, gramps. Tick tock. Want to be the hero and save little Smithers? Because maybe I won't shoot him if you put your head on that desk there."

Monty Burns started to move, but Waylon raised an arm to stop him.

Franklin rolled his eyes and drew the hammer back.

"Oh, to hell with the chit chat. Looks like I'm just going to shoot you both." He closed one eye and took aim at the center of Waylon's chest.

"No, came a voice from the hallway, you're not."

Rhonda LeBlanc stepped into the room, all five feet of her, head held high.

Despite his superior height and bouncer-like build, Franklin took a step back. Something about this gargoyle of a woman seemed to fill the room, and he didn't like it. He curled a lip at her. "Well, you're either a grey pig-in-a-wig, or that Rhonda I've been talking to." He moved blocking her access to the door, confining her in the room with the rest of his prey. "My goodness. And here I was thinking I'd been talking to a woman," he sneered.

If his taunting had any effect on her, Rhonda didn't show it. She eyed him unflinchingly.

Franklin decided he hated the look in her eyes. It was too calm, too orderly. He licked his lips. "Well, you made it for the main event after all. Good show, Rhonda. Impressive, but ultimately futile.

Rhonda held up her hands to show she was unarmed. "I thought we were going to expose their illegal activity."

Franklin shrugged. "Technically, _you_ said that. I stated I want to put an end to the lies. And this seems like an end to me," he gave a manic grin, and wiped his damp lips with his free hand. "Get over there against the wall."

Franklin debated turning his gun on Rhonda, but he'd seen how fast that Smithers fellow could move. He was quite sure he could overpower Rhonda with one hand tied behind his back (or holding a gun). Why, it would be too easy. He giggled at the thought.

Rhonda shook her head. "I'm not afraid of you."

"Oh? Is this one of those 'I have nothing left to lose' things? Because you assume the only thing you have left is your life and your name?" He rolled his eyes. "Spare me. Let old grandad there tell you what's in a name. Burns." He spat the name out with contempt. "No, Rhonda, you assume I'd kill you ought-right. Death could be merciful."

Rhonda's eyes were darting around the room, probably looking for something to use as a weapon.

Franklin glanced at a pair of antique pistols on a shelf by the door, old flint-lock things with a strange blade like a bayonet or cutlass mounted to the underside of the barrel. Rhonda's eyes followed his.

"It doesn't have to be this way," she said, hands still raised. "We all make mistakes, we can work through this."

"Really?" he scoffed. "That's you're plan? Try and hug it out, appeal to my so-called better nature? Pathetic. You're not even worth my time." With that, he turned his attention fully to Waylon Smithers and his grandfather.

There was a rattle to his right.

Rhonda had snatched one of the flintlock pistols from the stand and aimed it at him.

"Damn! You are irritating," Franklin sighed. Keeping his gun trained on Waylon he sidled over to Rhonda. "Give me that relic. It's probably not even loaded." He made a snatch for the pistol, but she jerked it, catching his fingers with the blade.

Franklin drew his breath in as the cold steel cut his fingertips.

"You bitch…"

Angrily, he wrapped his hand around the barrel, blade and all, and tried to rip it from her grasp. The woman was stronger than he'd expected. She held on like a pitbull. Franklin noticed that the hammer to the flintlock was drawn back. He hadn't noticed that earlier. His brain gave him a moment to process this information as he twisted the gun trying to wrench it free.

There was a loud clack.

Everybody froze.

The hammer of the cutlass pistol struck flint. Several sparks flicked away, fizzling into the carpet.

Franklin's eyes narrowed with a sinister delight. "See, not even loaded..."

A resounding _BANG_ exploded in the room, filling the office with sulfurous white smoke.

Time slowed to a crawl as the smoke cleared.

Franklin reached up, finger tips playing around the wet edges of a rough quarter-sized hole in his neck. Somewhere, a .54 caliber ball had torn through the side of his neck. He realized there was probably quite the mess behind him from the explosive exit wound. With his next heartbeat, the blood began to flow. Franklin involuntarily clasped his hand across his throat.


	11. Chapter 11

**SPRINGFIELD, NORTH TACOMA**

Rhonda LeBlanc stood, looking down in horror at the gun in her hand. Franklin was staring at her, head tilted to the side, hand around his neck. He staggered, then fell backward, knees slightly bent, ankles crossing as he landed.

Rhonda watched as the color drained from his face with each dying pump of blood. Already his cheeks were grey, lips turning blue. There would be no second chance for him.

The cutlass pistol fell from Rhonda's grip.

Her hands went to her mouth. "No…." The pistol landed on the floor with a loud thud.

Burns shoved his way from behind Waylon's shoulders. He stood over Franklin's body, gave it a prod with the toe of his shoe. "Hangfire," he observed, nodding towards the pistol in Rhonda's hand.

"I never meant to kill him," Rhonda whispered.

Burns stared down at Franklin's remains. "It is a pity, isn't it. But also unavoidable. He wouldn't have hesitated to kill any one of us. He tried to do so before. Sometimes there is no way to elude the consequences of one's decisions." He regarded the scene with a detached expression. "We'll have to do something about that carpet," he observed, picking up the cutlass pistol between his thumb and index finger, and handing it to Waylon.

From the hallway came the sound of running feet. There was a squeal of sneakers on hardwood as Antoine grabbed the doorframe, swinging himself into the room. "I heard an explosion and… oh." His eyes fixed on Franklin's remains, at the wide pool of blood and the mess behind him.

Antoine turned, facing the hallway. He put his hands on his knees and took several deep breaths. "I don't need to see that," he said thickly, between nauseous gulps. "Going to be sick now." He hung his head between his knees.

"I'm quite done with it too," Burns remarked, putting a hand on Antoine's shoulder. "Let us retire to a more pleasant location and get you some fresh air. Smithers, have someone clean up this mess then join us in the den. Perhaps a stiff drink would be in order."

"Come." Burns sunk his fingers sharply into Rhonda's and Antoine's arms. "We need to talk."


	12. Chapter 12

**SPRINGFIELD, NORTH TACOMA**

Montgomery Burns twirled the snifter of brandy in his hand and glazed through the glass at his unexpected guests. "Well, we do have a rather interesting conundrum on our hands, don't we. And I'm not talking about the remains. I'm not concerned with that. What shall we do with _you_ , woman?"

Burns stared hard at Rhonda, sizing her up.

"Your options are rather limited, I'm afraid. You could go the police, tell them what happened, from liberating Franklin, to shooting him through the neck. Of course you'll get the full investigation: collusion with a known criminal, aiding and abetting, breaking and entering… oh yes, and murder. Though, perhaps if the judge is feeling lenient your infraction might be lessened to manslaughter. Either way," he twirled a hand, "you'll be put away for quite the lasting amount time I fear; yes?"

Rhonda hadn't touched her brandy. She stared at her reflection in its dark surface. "I'm prepared for that."

"Really?" Burns cocked his head, as if amused. "Ready to give up so easily? Don't be imprudent. There is another option."

"Oh?"

"Absolutely. Let us handle this our way, and do not ask questions. In exchange, Smithers and I here will let bygones be bygones. Of course the United States Government will be hunting for you, it's only a matter of time until they identify you down as the one who released all the inmates from Falvelle, but I do keep a list of countries without extradition treaties handy, just in case I might have to make a hasty retreat at some point."

Rhonda took a sip of her cognac, savoring the taste.

"I do have a _global_ company as you recall most clearly," Burns leaned in conspiratorially. "With _international_ connections."

Rhonda gave a soft snort. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"How would you like to run a nuclear plant proper this time, like you used to in the old days, eh? I've got one in Ukraine. The old girl could use a seasoned captain at the helm. What do you say, Rhonda? Full benefits and a pension. Of course, you'd never be able to return to the states, but is there anything truly left for you here?"  
Rhonda ran her fingers along the rim of her glass, thinking.

Burns waited, expression blank.

After a moment she nodded. "It sounds the best choice."

"Unless you like prison living, then it is your _only_ choice."

"So be it, Mister Burns." She threw back her head and finished her brandy in a single gulp.

Burns blinked in surprise, then gave a nod of approval. "It's settled. We'll see you flying out first thing tomorrow morning."

* * *

The sound of a cell phone with some upbeat pop song for a ringtone interrupted the silence. All eyes turned to Waylon Smithers.

"Adam Lambert? Really?" Antoine muttered.

Waylon blushed as he fished his phone out of his pocket. Everyone waited.

"Preston, hi… what's up?" Waylon glanced at Antoine. "Uhm, yes. He's here… okay, yes, we can do that…" Waylon lifted the phone away from his ear. "He's rather impatient to talk to you, Antoine. I'm going to put him on conference calling." Waylon aimed a remote at the huge flat-screen TV across from them. ("You should get out of the frame," he mouthed to Rhonda.)

Rhonda nodded, and slipped quietly to the doorway.

The image of Preston Tucci, larger than life, appeared on the wall, and dominated it. He sat behind his desk, fingers interlaced, expression dark. Every detail was magnified with formidable clarity, from the light flecks in his brown eyes to his perfectly manicured nails. Antoine could see the very threads of Preston's silk tie. Rigel stood stiffly behind him, tablet in her hands.

"There you are," Preston began softly. His voice had an ominous timbre, like the rumble of distant thunder.

Antoine twisted his shoulders slightly, lips drawing back in a submissive grin. "Eh, hey, Preston." He offered a weak wave.

Preston's eyes narrowed. "Spare me the pleasantries, Antoine. What the hell have you been doing? I see you take off recklessly, without even registering a flight plan, then later I get a phone call from the Transport Security Administration that _my_ company helicopter has been abandoned on the tarmac of LaGuardia International, and the pilot is nowhere to be found! Oh, I was not happy about that. Not happy at all." His voice deepened as he leaned forward.

A snicker came from the corner of the room.

Heads turned.

Montgomery Burns was rubbing his hands together in delight at the scene, and grinning like some half-mad Cheshire cat.

"Something amusing to you, Mister Burns?" Preston snapped.

"Oh, it's just a delight to finally see you bring some fire to the table," Burns replied, still cackling. "Don't let me interfere. By all means, he's your employee, I'm eager to see how you'll handle him."

Preston rested his mouth on his fingertips and exhaled slowly. His eyes were locked on Antoine.

Antoine was cringing, still offering a sheepish smile, but his eyes were wide and nervous.

"I've had Rigel making phone calls all day to try and determine your whereabouts. Then, finally, I decided to try Waylon because there was nowhere else I could look. And there you are, sitting on the couch, drinking brandy and looking as if you haven't a care in the world." Preston closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Mein Gott, Antoine, ich war krank vor Sorge! Ich weiß nicht, ob ich dich küssen oder erwürgen soll." German. The language of his frustration.

Burns gave a chuckle and tented his fingers. { _Ah, now there is a dilemma, is it not?_ } he chortled.

Preston looked at Burns, momentarily caught off guard. { _You speak German!_ }

{ _Naturally. And you?_ }

{ _Fluently._ }

{ _Well, I gather from the blank looks neither yours nor mine understands a word of it. So much the better. Isn't it a funny thing how anger and love can be so closely intertwined? Especially complicated when the object of your affections is an employee, eh_?}

{ _I never said I love him._ } Preston raised his head defiantly.

{ _No, you didn't have to._ } Burns rubbed the tips of his fingers together smugly. { _An extreme of one emotion generally means an extreme of the other is present. So, what are you going to do? Fire him, forgive him,}_ Burns gave Preston a wicked grin. _{Make him suffer for the torment he's caused you?_ }

Preston regarded Burns coolly. { _I'll think of something._ }

{ _I'm sure you will_ ,} Burns replied with a smirk. { _He_ has _been misbehaving. He ought be punished_.} Burns gave a predatory grin.

Preston turned his attention back to Antoine, switching easily back to English. "The moment your feet touch ground, Antoine, I want you making tracks to my office! I don't even care what you might have to say right now, I don't want to hear it. Tomorrow: my office. _No excuses_."

Preston reached a hand out and disconnected.

Burns rocked back and forth, chortling with glee. He rubbed his hands against his legs and stood up. "Well that was a jolly good show. He didn't even let you get a word in edgewise, did he Boy Blue. Oh, I'm sure you're going to get an ear full when you get back, one way or the other."

He gestured towards Rhonda. "You can come back now, Ms. LeBlanc. It's getting late. My dear Smithers and I shall be taking dinner shortly, of which you are welcome to join, then I shall take my leave of you. I've got matters of my own to attend."

"Of course," Antoine muttered, slouching behind Rhonda.


	13. Chapter 13

**SPRINGFIELD, NORTH TACOMA**

"So what now?" Antoine asked as he and Rhonda made their way through the main hallway of Burns Manor.

"What now, Radson? Well, I need a smoke, that's what. I believe I saw a patio out back. Unless you feel like joining me, you may as well find your own spot to unwind."

Antoine stuck his hands in his pocket. "That's it then?"

Rhonda gave him a quizzical look. "Of course. What else could there be?"

Antoine shrugged and leaned against the wall. "I dunno. I mean we flew across the country together, saved Waylon and Burnsie, stopped Franklin… I guess it feels like there should be something, some end or satisfaction. Like now we have some-"

"-Kumbaya moment?" Rhonda asked with a dry laugh. "Life's not like a movie, Antoine. I killed a man today. I'm wanted by the Federal government – or I will be once they figure out who released the inmates of Falvelle. In less than twelve hours I'll be boarding a plane for a country I've never been to before, with full knowledge that I'll never be able to set foot on American soil again. And here you are thinking we've bonded over this?"

She stepped out onto the darkened veranda. Antoine followed. "Radson, you get to go home tomorrow, take your lumps, then it's back to business as usual. You'll watch your own television, eat your TV dinner or whatever it is you eat, then fall asleep in your own bed. The next morning, you'll get up and do it all over again. Nothing, ultimately, will change for you. Me on the other hand? Well, everything's changed. But that's the way of things."

Antoine flopped down in a chair upwind of Rhonda and watched the way the smoke curled around her face, blending with the colour of her hair, making her look as if she had the mane of some mythical beast.

"We have less in common now than we ever did before, Radson. There's nothing more I can say to you. I'm sorry, but that's the truth." She stood with her back towards Antoine, looking out over the back grounds of the manor. A landscape of ink and shadows.

"I've never seen this place by day," she said suddenly, lighting a fresh cigarette from the end of her old one. "Tad always said the gardens were a wonder. He said beyond that was a hedge maze, fields and lawns, and past that the forest. I've never seen it. I never will."

Rhonda exhaled a stream of smoke into the night sky. "I always wanted to travel, see the Grand Canyon, the desert of the southewest. I figured once I retired I'd have the time. The assumption that there's always a 'later' to do things. That seems so naïve now."

Antoine tapped his feet on the deck. "Yeah. I bet you're pretty mad at Burnsie, huh."

Rhonda turned on him, expression condescending. "Mad at him? No, of course not! You really don't get it, do you. The only one I have to be mad at is me. I brought this on myself. All of it. It started with Tad's death, and seeing Rhodes go to prison. Evita moved; if I hadn't allowed myself to become so obsessed with outing Preston then I never would've followed you here."

She coughed and licked her lips.

"I stopped following the rules, thought I made them. Was above them. I never would've wound up in India if I hadn't trespassed on Burns' grounds in the first place. No, we reap what we sow, Antoine; and that's how it is." Rhonda extended the pack of cigarettes to Antoine, offering. He shook his head. Rhonda shrugged and put it in her pocket. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a long day ahead of me tomorrow, and I'm going to try and get what little sleep I can."

Antoine followed her in to the manor.

"I feel like I should say something," he muttered as he followed her upstairs towards the guest rooms.

"Say what, Radson? There is nothing to say." She stopped outside a door with her name hung on it. "We make mistakes, we miss opportunities, and we get dealt consequences, and we live with them. That's it. End of the story. Good night. I don't expect I'll see you again." Antoine reached a hand towards her, but she turned away from him.

With that, she stepped into her room and shut the door.

Antoine stood in the empty hall, hand held in mid-air.

Slowly, feeling oddly hurt, he let it fall.

With a final backward glance, Antoine sighed and padded sullenly down the hall to his own room.


	14. Chapter 14

**SPRINGFIELD, NORTH TACOMA**

Morning came too quickly, the light streaming in from the massive windows. Antoine pulled a pillow over his head and groaned. After several moments he got up, dressed, and made himself presentable. He stepped into the hallway.

There was a note just outside his door. He opened it.

 _Antoine, there is breakfast available if you want it. The private jet is waiting at Springfield Airport, our pilot will fly you anywhere you wish to go; though it would be in your own best interest to return to Plateau City. Your return is expected there._

There were two sets of initals: WJS, and CMB, each in their own handwriting.

Antoine folded the note roughly, crammed it in his pocket, and headed downstairs.

The rental car was parked out front where he'd left it.

The drive to the airport seemed too long.

The flight to New York seemed too short.

* * *

 **PLATEAU CITY, NEW YORK**

He docked the _Little Diva_ on the helipad and stowed the helicopter in its hanger. It was already almost six o'clock. Preston's car was still in the parking lot, waiting. Antoine swiped his ID badge and slunk up the stairs to Preston's office. His feet felt like they were made out of lead; each step harder than the last. By the time he was at the top, it might as well have been a fifty mile hike to the familiar double doors.

Head bowed, Antoine pushed himself onward, grateful at least that the administration team had left for the day. No one was around to see him do his walk of shame.

Antoine paused outside Preston's door, steeled his nerves, and rapped on the wood lightly with the back of his knuckles. Not waiting for a response he cracked the door open and peeking in.

Preston was sitting behind his desk, the same stoic pose he'd held on the video conference the other night.

"Antoine," he purred softly, "come in, and close the door."

Preston's voice had a sinister tone. Antoine made his way across the carpeted floor, coming to a stop less than a yard from Preston's desk. He fixed his eyes on a spot behind Preston's head, a so-called 'thousand-yard stare' and awaited the onslaught.

Remarkably, it never came.

Preston groaned and pushed himself to his feet. He walked to the side of his desk and sat down on it, motioning Antoine to sit beside him, like they had done so many times before. "Mister Burns called me back after I spoke to you last night," Preston began. "He told me what happened."

Antoine dug his toe into the carpet and scuffed at it, but said nothing.

"Why didn't you tell me Rhonda was back? Or that Franklin had escaped?" Preston demanded.

"Because…" he began. "Because for the Rhonda, what good would it have done you? For Franklin, there wasn't enough time. And I wasn't sure you'd believe me anyhow. I was trying to look out for you," Antoine explained, looking down.

"Dammit, Antoine…" Preston stood up and started pacing, wringing his hands with nervous energy.

Antoine stared at the floor.

"Look at me," Preston instructed.

Antoine glanced up.

"If you want me to be honest with you, _you_ are going to have to be honest with me. That means if it's something that affects both of us, I need to know about it. What if, instead of Franklin shooting himself, he shot you instead."

"Franklin didn't shoot himself, he was trying to get your pistol from Rhonda…"  
"Honestly, I don't care. I should be furious at you, and at first I was. Now, I'm just glad you're alive." Preston knotted his fingers together. "That was a stupid thing you did, Antoine. What on earth were you thinking?"

Antoine offered a weak smile. "Probably the same thing you were thinking when you jumped between Franklin and Waylon in the first place, you know? Just trying to do the right thing; maybe doing it the wrong way, but still trying."

Preston sighed. "Don't ever, _ever!_ , do something like that again. Next time anything even close to this comes up, you tell me, understood?"

Antoine didn't reply.

" _Understood?!_ "

"Right, right; I get it," Antoine replied.

"No," Preston replied, still pacing. "I don't think you do. I just don't think..." He glared at Antoine, shook his head and muttered something in German. "Ich würde dir sagen, dass ich dich liebe, Liebling, aber ich bin nicht mutig genug. Ich bin heilfroh, dass du keine Ahnung hast, was ich gerade sage."

Antoine gave Preston a tired look. "You know I have no idea what you just said, right. Are you going to tell me?"

Preston walked over to his desk and removed a small tin and his travel mug from the top drawer. "You're important to me, Antoine. It's that simple," he explained as he fixed himself a mug of tea. The soft scent of lavender wafted up with the steam. Preston inhaled deeply, then took a sip. "I don't want to lose you. I'm sure you can imagine that. But right now, all I feel is tired. Let's go home."

Preston set the steel mug on the shelf as he slung his overcoat on. He picked up his briefcase, and grabbed the mug.

Antoine hadn't moved from his spot on the desk.

Preston tilted his head. "Are you coming, Antoine?"

"My car's down in the lot by the hanger. I'll probably just chill there for a while."

Preston sighed. "You know, you can ride with me."

Antoine gave Preston a tired look. "You've been needing your own space lately, I get it. I'm half-expecting you to tell me any day now you're going to move out."

Preston froze, hand on the doorknob. "Is that part of why you didn't tell me about Rhonda?"

Pushing himself to his feet, Antoine wandered over to stand beside Preston. He folded his arms across his chest and regarded his friend soberly. "Exactly. I mean, it would've just sounded like some old 'don't leave,' shtick. And, well, I'm all about freedom of choice. So I wasn't going to make you stay. We're not even sleeping in the same room anymore, so, yeah…" he pushed past Preston into the hallway and started towards the back stairs.

"I wish you spoke German," he heard Preston call after him.

Antoine gave a humorless laugh. "Like that'll ever happen; but maybe someday you'll translate for me."

If Preston replied further, Antoine didn't hear it. He loped down the steps and made his way out the rear of the office complex. He cut past the reactor complex, pausing to watch the steam rising from the cooling towers. The steam had red glow to it, illuminated by the lights he and Sharon had replaced some time back. It was like watching a giant lava lamp. Hypnotic. Relaxing. Maybe not quite as soothing as being in the air, or lying with his head in Preston's lap, but it was better than nothing.

Preston…

Antoine leaned against a nearby wall, and fished his phone out of his pocket. He dialed a familiar number, and waited for the line to pick up.

"Hello?"

It was Preston's voice, and he was already in his car. Antoine could tell by the road noise in the background. "Hey, Preppy?" He paused, choosing his words carefully; thinking of what Rhonda had said: the assumption that there'd always be more time or chances, then finding out there wasn't. "There's something I wanna tell you."

"Yes, Antoine?

"I love ya, Preppy." Without waiting for a response, Antoine disconnected and turned his phone off. He rubbed his hand over his soft chest, feeling his heart beat a mile a minute. Dealing with Franklin, that was duty. Admitting a feeling? That was terrifying. _At least I did it_ , Antoine thought. Come what may, he'd finally been honest in the end. Feeling as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, he kicked his feet contentedly, and watched the steam blend seamlessly into the night sky. For him at least, and Preston too, they still had tomorrow. And hopefully many more beyond that.


	15. Author's Notes

_**AUTHOR'S NOTES 16-Dec-16**_

This story wraps up, though it leaves things with Preston and Antoine dangling a bit. This is because more of their dynamic will be hashed out in subsequent "Snapshots" chapters. I didn't want to ruin an action story with a slew of sentimental mush at the end. It seemed out of place, and turned the ending into a drag. Endings, even the unresolved ones are better than a story that rambles after the climax. The denouement is where the dangling ends are supposed to be wrapped up, not dragged across the floor for the cat to play with (and make a mess of).

There are several deleted scenes, and I'll include some of them beyond this chapter. Others weren't even worth including.

Mention of Thaddeus Dimas' first (and deceased) son Alastair? Cut. They made the story a bit too depressing, and added a character that served no point to the plot.

A few of the Rhonda/Dimas scenes detailing their work and her friendship with him and Evita? Cut because though they gave some history, they didn't enhance the present.

Now, some people might ask why I chose these characters to highlight: Rhonda and Antoine. Well, I wanted to do a story that featured Rhonda LeBlanc as the primary character. I wanted to present her in a different light. In "Supercritical Arrangement" she is the cold-hearted bureaucrat who hounds Preston relentlessly, just waiting for him to make some critical mistake so she can have him removed from his position as CEO.

But why?

What was Rhonda's deal anyhow? Well, in many ways, I pictured Rhonda as being to Thaddeus Dimas what Waylon Sr. was to Montgomery Burns - minus the romantic undertones. Rhonda was his second in command; she'd been with him since his first days there. She'd started as a lowly secretary and proved herself time and time again to be so much more. She was the one who recommended Tad consider a helicopter over a private jet. She even got her pilot's license and became LimaDelta's first pilot. Antoine bought a share of the helicopter as part of his contract... it was Rhonda's share he bought, though he'll never know it.

Rhonda LeBlanc was a career woman who eschewed the romantic life for her work. She had been engaged once, but her fiance wasn't comfortable with the idea of a woman being the primary breadwinner. When the ultimatum came - it's me or your job! - Rhonda chose her career. Though she might've had initial twinges of regret for never having a family, her role as godparent to the Dimas children, and her sisterly camaraderie with Evita left her deeply content with her choices.

Then Tad died. Rhodes went to prison. Evita moved back to her home state.

Rhonda was left alone... and an untried pup was suddenly trying to run the nuclear plant.

Now, Rhonda's objections and dislike of him make sense. Especially after she learns that Preston (and Antoine too) were somehow involved in the incidents that lead to Tad's death. Of course she'd be upset. In one fell swoop her entire world is turned upside-down, and shaken violently for good measure. Rhonda's not some shallow, heartless villain out solely to target young Preston. She's a living person struggling through her own sense of loss without any of her old support group.

I always secretly viewed Rhonda as a sympathetic character, but there was no place for me to present her that way in "Supercritical Arrangement."

As for Antoine?

Well, Preston tends to take center stage. In many ways, it makes sense. He is more of the primary protagonist type. He always has been.

I thought Antoine deserved a bit of time in limelight for a change, and I wanted to reveal how interconnected Antoine's story had been with both Rhonda and Tad, from the little things like getting away with wearing Hawaiian shirts or dying his hair, to the big things like Tad's infidelity being the reason Rhonda quit flying the helicopter.

I like to hope this story ties up some loose ends from "Consequences of Fission" and "Supercritical Arrangement" both; as well as presenting all the characters, including the deceased Thaddeus Dimas, in greater depth.

As always, ThankYou for reading! I'm grateful for every fan I have. If if weren't for my Readers, I'd have no reason to write! ThankYou!

~ Muse


	16. Alternate Scene: Sie sprechen Deutsch!

**_"Shakespear's not the same until you've heard him in the original Klingon"_**

 _I wanted to give a huge ThankYou! to the most wonderful Lady Tiko for translating Burns' and Preston's conversation into German. I debated how much to leave in English between them. Foreign language is excellent, but the Reader does like to understand what the characters are saying, lest they lose interest as they struggle over foreign words._

 _Still, credit must be given, and here is their actual conversation. I did include the English translations, for the curious._

* * *

"I've had Rigel making phone calls all day to try and determine your whereabouts. Then, finally, I decided to try Waylon because there was no one else I could think of to contact. And there you are, sitting on the couch, drinking brandy and looking as if you haven't a care in the world." Preston closed his eyes and massaged the bridge of his nose in frustration. {My god, Antoine, I was worried sick! I don't know whether to kiss you or strangle you.} **Mein Gott, Antoine, ich war krank vor Sorge! Ich weiß nicht, ob ich dich küssen oder erwürgen soll.**

Burns gave a chuckle and tented his fingers. {Ah, now that is always the dilemma, is it not?} he chortled. **Tja, das ist immer die Frage, nicht wahr?**

Preston looked at Burns, momentarily caught off guard. {You speak German!} **Sie sprechen Deutsch!**

{Naturally. And you?} **Natürlich. Und Sie?**

{Fluently.} **Fließend.**

{Well, I gather from the blank looks your man understands it no better than mine. So much the better. Isn't it a funny thing how anger and love can be so closely intertwined? Especially complicated when the object of your affections is an employee, eh?} **Nun, aus dem verwirrten Blick schließe ich, dass Ihr Mann es nicht besser als meiner versteht. Umso besser. Ist es nicht witzig wie eng Wut und Liebe miteinander verflochten sein können? Es ist besonders kompliziert, wenn das Objekt Ihrer Liebe ein Angesteller ist, oder?**

{I never said I love him.} **Ich habe niemals gesagt, dass ich ihn liebe.**

{No, you didn't have to. An extreme of one emotion generally means an extreme of the other is present. So, what are you going to do? Fire him, forgive him,} Burns gave Preston a wicked grin. {Make him suffer for the torment he's caused you?} **Nein, aber das mussten Sie auch nicht. Ein Extrem einer Emotion bedeutet grundsätzlich auch, dass ein Extrem der anderen vorhanden ist. Also, was werden Sie tun? Ihn feuern, ihm vergeben, ihn leiden lassen für die Qual, die er Ihnen verursacht hat?**

{I'll think of something.} **Ich werde mir etwas überlegen.**

{I'm sure you will,} Burns replied with a smirk. {He has been misbehaving. He ought be punished.} **Ich bin sicher das werden Sie. Er hat sich unpassend verhalten. Er muss bestraft werden.**


	17. DELETED SCENES: Ryan Smithers' Cameos

**_DELETED SCENES: Ryan Smithers' appearances._**

 ** _Author's Notes_**

 _Originally, I had featured Ryan Smithers in this story, but I removed mention of him. Antoine and Ryan are not the sort who would get along. There's a snippet on my Facebook page that tells a non-canon interaction between them at Burns Manor. It's a drabble, and not part of the story. It seemed unnecessary to include additional characters purely for the sake of inclusion, and thus, the scenes with Ryan were cut. When it doubt, cut it out!_

* * *

 **After Antoine and Waylon have their Skype Conversation...**

Antoine was grumbling.

Waylon wasn't in the mood for an attitude from anyone. "Don't be surly," he admonished through the screen. "I didn't have to tell you at all."

"Yeah," Antoine relented, looking mildly embarrassed. He hung his head, but raised his eyes hopefully. Antoine Radson: thirty-plus years of mastering the sad puppy face, and oh how he could nail it!

Waylon heard a knock at the door. Ryan. He ignored it. The knock came again, this time followed by a voice. "Hey, Dad? Are you in there?"

Waylon closed his eyes. He should've just stayed at the plant tonight. Between the Prestoine drama, Antoine's attitude, and whatever Ryan wanted he'd never get any of his actual projects finished tonight.

"Give me a minute, okay Ryan?"

Antoine tilted his head, perplexed. "'Dad?'"

"Didn't I say I had a lot going on in my life?" _Moving on_ , Waylon thought, and pushed to redirect the topic back on track. Antoine seemed to take the hint.

"So," Antoine continued, "should I tell Preston or not?"

 _Preston, Preston, Preston!_ Waylon wanted to pound his head on the desk. _Is this how everyone else felt when I'd talk about Monty?_ He groaned inwardly. Didn't Antoine's thoughts ever go anywhere else?

"Antoine," he began, and hoped he kept the exasperation out of his voice, "that is your decision. Do I think you're in danger? No. Do I think it might be premature to worry Preston? Yes. Would I tell him? No; but I'm not you."

Antoine reached for his controller and leaned back on the couch. "Okay, so this'll be our little secret then," he muttered. "I'm really not okay with this," he added, glancing at Waylon. A few more words crossed between them. Eventually Antoine seemed satisfied. He rubbed his chest, gave Waylon a half-salute, and terminated the call.

Waylon spun in his chair and peered out of the office. Ryan was sitting in one of the bay windows along the hall, tossing a lacrosse ball from hand to hand.

"Okay, Ryan, sorry about that, what's up?"

The young man looked very similar to his father, but his face was slightly softer, hair black and somewhat long, eyes hazel. He wore a blue and white varsity jacket with a "Y" on it. Yale. Ryan caught the ball and held it in both hands. "I like coming home for the long weekend and all, but I was thinking come Thanksgiving I'd stay out east."

Waylon held out his hands, made a cupping gesture.

Ryan, his son, tossed the lacrosse ball to him. He caught it easily, spun as he did so, and seamlessly lobbed it back. Ryan caught it, and grinned.

"Really?" Waylon asked, taking a step back. Ryan stood up and gave the ball an underhand lob. Waylon caught it one-handed, flipped it back. "Why's that?"

"Well, I was thinking of that next break I'd spend it Larry and his family," Ryan admitted. "You wouldn't mind, would you?"

Mind? Well, maybe a little. Waylon had felt like he was just starting to form a solid rapport with his son, then the young man left for college. Waylon looked forward to Ryan's returns during holidays. The idea of not seeing him? It stung more than he wanted to admit. He's growing up, Waylon chided himself. You didn't honestly think he'd be coming home forever did you? Actually, part of him had.

"Yes," Waylon replied, continuing the game of catch. "That would be fine, as long as Larry's okay with it."

"I already asked him," Ryan grinned.

"Oh. Well, that's… that's great Ryan." Waylon glanced at the large backpack sitting on the floor next to his son. "What's with that?" he asked, giving a nod in that direction.

"Me and some of the boys from Shelbyville were going camping this week. I have my duffle bag packed already."

" 'Some of the boys and I,'" Waylon corrected. It was an involuntary action.

Ryan rolled his eyes. "Some of the boys and I. Whatever. You knew what I meant."

"If you're going to an Ivy League school, you should speak like it."

Ryan tried to look annoyed, but there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. "You can take the boy out of Philly, but you'll never take Philly out of the boy." He caught the ball and stuffed it in his pocket. The game had come to an end.

Waylon felt a pang of nostalgia. He'd been enjoying playing catch with his son; and Burns manor had plenty of space to do so.

"Well, have fun, be safe," Waylon began.

"Thanks, Dad. I will, to both!" Ryan snatched the backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He bounded over to Waylon, gave him a tight one-armed hug, then capered down the hall. "I'll see you when I get back!"

Waylon nodded. "Right then. Be safe."

Ryan laughed. "You already said that."

Waylon shrugged. "It's a parent thing, deal with it."

Ryan nodded, waved, and half-jogged around a corner and out of sight.

How was it the days with Ryan seemed both so long, and over so quickly, Waylon mused as he returned to his office. It seemed like only yesterday Ryan had shown up on his doorstep, eyes haunted and lonely. More a boy than a man. Now, he was more man than boy; and Waylon found himself wishing he had more time with his son. Ryan was in and out, back then off again on some other adventure. At least we'll always have Route 66, Waylon thought. That road trip, the moment he, Ryan and Monty had all stood on the pier in Santa Monica, that was a memory that he'd cherish forever.

So thinking, Waylon returned to his office, and tried to focus once more on his projects.

* * *

 **The morning after the incident, as Antoine is leaving Burns Manor...**

 _Antoine, there is breakfast available if you want it. The private jet is waiting at Springfield Airport, our pilot will fly you anywhere you wish to go; though it would be in your own best interest to return to Plateau City. Your return is expected there._

There were two sets of initals: WJS, and CMB, each in their own handwriting.

Antoine folded the note roughly, crammed it in his pocket, and headed downstairs. He was so lost in thought he almost collided with a young man who came barreling in the front door like he owned the place.

The youth looked like a younger version of Waylon, save for the black hair, and rather sassy expression. He wore a camping backpack and lugged a duffle bag in one arm. He gave Antoine a sideways look as he hurried past, casually tossing his a dufflebag on the floor as he went. "I suppose you're another friend of my dads," the young man remarked over his shoulder.

"I was just leaving," Antoine replied.

"Doesn't matter to me," Ryan replied. "Who my dads invite over isn't my business. You're here, so you're obviously a guest. You do you and I'll do me, bro." With that, Ryan continued up the stairs to the second floor, and was gone.

 _Rude!_ thought Antoine with snort. He shook his head and stepped out.


	18. DELETED SCENE: An Unnecessary Flashback

**_DELETED SCENE: An Unnecessary Flashback_**

 _Author's Note_

 _Originally I included a flashback to the events at AlkaliStark from Antoine's viewpoint. It was removed because it slowed down the action and, while it revealed scenes not in the story, they weren't truly needed in this tale. The Reader doesn't need to know -everything!- that happened beforehand. And, if they do, they can always read the previous stories. While recaps can have a time and place, this one did not. Thus, it was cut._

* * *

Rhonda put her hand out, steadying herself against the side of the chopper. Antoine prowled forward, his gait loose and dangerous, like a jaguar ready to pounce. "Franklin Burns is the reason Rhodes succeeded in killing Dimas." Antoine's mind flashed back, the images unspooling like film in his mind.

There was the figure behind the SUV they'd driven to Burns' bomb shelter / fuel storage installation. Antoine knew it wasn't either of the drivers, or their little crew. The shadow moved again, hunched down like a man tying his shoes. Antoine thought he was being stealthy. He had no idea he was walking into a trap.

There was a whunk and a zip, and a sudden pressure in his right breast, just below his collar bone. The force spun him around, nearly knocking him off balance. Confused, Antoine tried to regain his bearings. Two figured clothed in grey darted into the shadows. Antoine's shoulder felt oddly numb. He reached up, and found to his surprise what seemed like a pencil stuck to him. He tugged at it, mind still not fully comprehending.

The pain was like a floodgate opening. Something deep in the meat of armpit made a shredding sensation, and blood started flowing freely from the area. It dawned on him he was looking at the shaft of crossbow bolt that had lodged itself deep in the flesh under his arm.

Antoine felt suddenly dizzy. The world tilted unpleasantly, and he struggled to regain his footing, return to the group. He was nearing the SUV, but his vision was dimming rapidly. He saw stars, and there was a deep buzzing sound in his ears. Vaguely he was aware of people running towards him. "I think I have an arrow in me," he began, giving the warm, slick shaft another futile tug.

The rest he didn't remember.

He woke up sometime later on a Spartan bunk in some control center straight from the 1950s. His shirt was gone, but his wounds had been dressed, and a wool blanket wrapped around him. Feeling somewhere between drunk and hung-over Antoine sat up, and waited for the world to stop spinning. When his vision cleared, he took a moment to look around.

The control room was spacious enough, with bunk racks enough for several people. There was a basic kitchen in one area, and a lavatory to the far end. A steel table was situated towards the center of the room, flanked by rolling chairs. To his right was a steel hatch they must've come through. To his left, the entire wall was taken up by a row of control panels and surveillance monitors.

Montgomery Burns sat in one of the chairs, watching the screens with rapt attention.

Aside from them, the room was empty.

"What in the hell…?" Antoine groaned, pushing himself upright.

Burns turned, momentarily distracted, and gave him a condescending smile. "Ah, Mister Radson, good to see you awake."

Clutching the blanket around his bare torso, Antoine shuffled over to Burns. There he learned the entire installation was in a state of lockdown, Dimas and Waylon had gone off to restart the main power grid; and after they had failed to check in Preston (dear Preston!) had left to find them.

Burns had hardly had time to fill Antoine in on the missing pieces before the monitors went dark and a voice like nails on a chalkboard cracked through the speakers. Franklin.

The rest of the events passed like a blur. All that really mattered in the end was that Franklin had allied himself with Rhodes, or maybe it had been the other way around. Where Rhodes had been motivated by some poorly balanced desire to avenge his mother for his father's infidelity, Franklin wanted little more than bloodshed and chaos. He wanted to kill Burns, his own grandfather, who he believed had forsaken his family.

Unlike Rhodes though, Franklin didn't care who he took down with him. If it meant destroying innocent lives, and setting off a nuclear chain reaction inside the compound, Franklin was more than happy to do so.

Antoine wished he could've claimed some heroic involvement, that at the last minute he joined the charge. Alas, at Burns' instruction he'd lain hidden and wounded against the floor behind one of the concrete dry-storage fuel silos. He hadn't seen Franklin shoot Preston, but he heard the sharp bark of a revolver; one bark, then a second, and Preston was crashing down sides across the floor.

Preston's back slammed into the silo, wrapping his body around it at an unnatural angle.

Antoine felt a sticky warms seep across his hands. Blood. Preston's. There was so much of it. He reached out, grabbing Preston's limp hand in his, ignoring the red streaks his fingers left on Preston's pale skin.

You can't die on me, Preppy! Come on, open your eyes… please!

Antoine gave a visible shudder at the memory. He could still smell Preston's blood, feel it drying between his fingertips. He rubbed his hands together briskly, trying to wipe the recollection from his skin.

Antoine Radson was not by nature a violent man, but remembering the image of Franklin's face, he ground his hands together ominously. "I'd wring his neck with my bare hands if he ever set foot near Waylon or Preston again. I'm coming with you."


End file.
